Old Blood, New Blood, Red Blood, Blue Blood
by 1776IsMyLife
Summary: Our favorite dynamic duo, Lieutenant Hank Anderson and Connor, are on a fresh case. OR A grumpy alcoholic and an adorable android solve crimes and learn to love each other in a different way.
1. Prologue: First Blood

**540 Chase Lane**

 **Bloomfield Hills, Michigan**

 **July 5th, 2041**

 **11:32 pm**

A picture of the actual house, if you want.

The Bloomfield Hills Township was a relatively safe, gated neighborhood. After all, one does not pay a little over 2 million for a crime-filled shitshow every other night. At least, that was just one of Jamie's reasons for purchasing the property.

Jamie Lyndon was beyond tired; despite having just taken a would-be invigorating shower, his shoulders slumped and his eyes felt like they had 20-pound weights hooked onto each eyelid. Though his body displayed all the signs of needing a good night's sleep, he still planned on taking time to catch up on the news, his favorite shows, and anything else that would slow his racing thoughts to a halt.

"TV, on," Jamie spoke as he dried his full head of wavy, brown hair. If not for the extensive hair transplants he had willingly, even desperately undergone, his hairline likely would have resembled Ben Franklin's in his older age. Though he didn't consider himself a vain main, he _did_ see value in taking care of himself. Especially after his wife and kid walked out of his life about two years ago. What an absolute fucking mess he was, and still, most definitely is.

"Chris?" Jamie called out to the android he'd hired as a... _butler_ , of sorts. Jamie's head snapped up from the book, _The Age of Innocence,_ he had been absorbed in. _The Age of Innocence_ was not only about a tragic, unsatisfying love triangle, but also about the awakening of a people (which is why he thoroughly enjoyed the novel). Edith Wharton was quite the wordsmith.

Chris's LED blinked between yellow and red as his head twitched. He fought for control of his thoughts, which seemed to race by his eyes in endless strings of unreadable code. This wasn't the first time it had happened; he had not only run several diagnostic tests, but also visited the Cyberlife warehouses (which now served as both biocomponent storage facilities and pseudo-android hospitals) for in-depth systemic analyses. Unfortunately, none of his visits or tests could detect anything off with his system or his programs, which was, needless to say, unnerving.

After a few seconds, Chris's LED returned to the blue it normally was. Chris blinked a few more times to recalibrate himself, then put down his book and went to see what Jamie wanted.

Jamie was watching CNN talk about President Parsons' efforts to mend the tensions with the Russian President, , and lessen the hostilities between the two countries' military forces. For once, Jamie wasn't considering strangling the President to put an end to the dishonest, malicious, and generally abhorrent remarks that left his or her mouth. Jamie noticed Chris coming down the stairs, and sent him an easy smile. "Would you mind pouring me a glass of whiskey?" Jamie's gaze returned to the TV, but he added, as an afterthought, "And would you mind handling the dishes? There's not too much, but I pretty much live in the office, so..." he trails off with a chuckle. "You get it."

"Of course," Chris replied, "Neat?"

"You know it, Chris. Thanks a bunch," Jamie answered, completely focused on the TV.

Chris went to the kitchen, grabbed a glass from the cupboard, and poured a healthy amount of Bushmills Black Bush Whiskey for Jamie's enjoyment.

Chris opened the drawer in front of him and slipped a chef's knife into the side of one of his boots.

Jamie nodded as Chris gently handed him the glass of whiskey. Jamie gulped down the glass, then let out a hearty sigh from the familiarity of the burn that followed. Chris opened the windows on the first floor, which included the ones in the living room, kitchen, and garage. He also left the back door wide open. Why? He didn't know, but he didn't bother to question it, either.

Chris made his way through the spacious, state-of-the-art kitchen and back into the living room. He was careful not to make a lot of noise as he removed one side of the curtains, then the other. He wrapped the ends around his hands to create a thick, taut strip of fabric, and quietly, gradually maneuvered closer to Jamie.

Jamie's eyes had begun to close for longer intervals of time; he recognized the blanket of drowsiness that was draping over him in increasingly stronger waves, but hadn't thought of a reason to get up just yet.

Which is why it was so easy for Chris to throw the curtain in front of him, yank him back, and attempt to strangle him.

Jamie dropped the whiskey glass, which shattered upon the ground and left traces of whiskey on the mahogany floor, which Jamie would have gotten upset about if he wasn't being _fucking strangled_ at the time. Jamie gasped and wheezed as he shoved his fingers under the cloth to buy himself some more time to think of an escape.

Jamie managed to punch Chris in his Thirium pump, which sent him reeling back and clutching at the middle of his chest. Jamie scrambled away, almost cutting his feet on the glass shards, but somehow managing to avoid the largest pieces.

Jamie ran to the front door and frantically turned the doorknob, but, strangely enough, the security system seemed to have either malfunctioned or shut down entirely.

In short, he was _fucked_. Chris had already gotten up and was walking toward him at an alarmingly fast pace.

Jamie wasted no time in running to the kitchen and grabbing a chef's knife to defend himself with. He tried to hop through a window, but in the middle of pulling himself through, he felt Chris grab the back of his t-shirt and yank him back into that god-forsaken house.

Chris threw Jamie on the floor and menacingly approached him, drawing the knife from his boot. Jamie got back to his feet and moved to the end of the kitchen island, trying to put as many physical obstacles between him and Chris's hauntingly red LED and equally, if not more threatening, knife-twirling hand.

When Chris got too close, Jamie slashed at his throat, but Chris leaned back _just enough_ to dodge the attack. Jamie then tried to go for his stomach, but Chris was, once again, too fast, an inhuman demonstration of efficiency and almost _practiced_ skill.

Jamie noted that Chris had put a hand on the top of the island to block Jamie from, most likely, the closest landline. His phone was upstairs, and the security system wasn't working, and Chris was clearly _not going to call the police because he was the fucking threat_. 'How unlucky can one person possibly be?' he thought to himself before going for Chris's side, hoping to critically damage a biocomponent. Chris was, of course, faster; he had likely used the scanning feature of his optical units to slow down the attempt, and as a result, block it with his own knife. Both of their arms were shaking as they tried to push each other away with the bulk of their knives, but, inevitably, Chris easily won out over Jamie, even managing to slam Jamie's hand down on the counter so hard that he hissed in a breath and released the knife, which slid across the island and, as a result, entirely out of reach.

Chris's other hand came up and caught Jamie's throat in a bruising grip; after dropping the knife, Chris pushed Jamie up against the fridge, strangling him with so much force that Jamie's feet dangled above the ground and kicked at the air, hoping to find purchase on something before he passed out and left himself at Chris's mercy.

And find purchase he _did_ ; he kicked Chris straight in his artificial _fucking_ groin, which made Chris's grip immediately release, and his hands went to protectively cup himself to prevent further attacks.

Even while experiencing a feeling akin to wanting to vomit, Chris managed to sweep Jamie's legs out from under him, causing him to slam on to the ground. Chris hobbled over and put a foot on one of Jamie's legs, putting pressure on the back of his knee. Jamie screamed in pain, hearing his bones fracture and crunch together as they were slowly crushed under Chris's weight.

Though his LED was blinking and still very much red, Chris 'regained his composure' and flipped Jamie over. Jamie hiccuped in breaths, feebly reaching down to protect his knee from further abuse. Chris could do nothing but watch as Jamie looked Chris in the eye, asking things like "What's wrong?" and "Why are you doing this, Chris?", and pleading, no, _begging_ for his life.

Chris thought nothing of the way the tears streamed down Jamie's cheeks, or the utter betrayal on his face, even as he moved to straddle his chest, pinned Jamie's arms with his knees, and wrapped his fingers around his throat to finish the job.

In that moment, strangling Jamie was just a task to be completed.

An objective.

Of course, Chris never answered him. Just stared back at Jamie with his green, soulless optical units that didn't blink very often. Maybe not at all.

As Chris's grip tightened, Jamie could feel the pressure in his face increase, could feel the blood being trapped underneath his skin, turning it from red, to blue, to purple. As if he were finally drowning after a long-fought battle with waves of self-hatred, violence, and fear, Jamie gladly succumbed to his mostly collapsed windpipe and airless lungs. After another minute, he stopped moving entirely.

Chris slowly got off of Jamie, and moved to kneel by his side, checking his pulse through his jugular.

Nothing.

Chris's LED went from red to yellow, but continued to flash as he changed clothes, threw his soiled clothing in the wash, and left through the backdoor, hands in his pockets as he casually strolled down the street.

It was around 1:00 am when Hank begrudgingly rolled over and answered his cell, tiredly grumbling a "Who is it?" into the phone.

"Anderson, it's Fowler. Let me tell you, it's a homicide, and there is some _fucked up shit_ over here, so we need you and your plastic plaything over here right-the-hell-now, got it?"

"Urgghhh," Hank grumbled, running a hand over his face and glancing at the clock on top of his bedside table. Of course. _Too fuckin' early_. "It's fuckin' 1 in the morning, Fowler. This better be a goddamn good case, or I swear to god I'll-"

"Don't push it, Anderson. Lucky your ass is still on the force after you socked Perkins in the goddamn nose, so if I were you, I'd shut the hell up and get your asses over here," Fowler reiterated, almost yelling. "If you want to keep being a Lieutenant, the address is 540 Chase Lane. Don't make me regret this, Hank. Am I clear?" Fowler's irritation was almost tangible through the phone.

Hank paused, not wanting to admit Fowler was _probably_ right, that absolute _fuckin' prick_. Hank knew he was already bored out of his mind, and couldn't stand the unspoken tension of being at home when he should've still been on the clock. He couldn't even imagine how Connor felt, not having solved a case in a while. Both of them could use some action. "Fuck it. We're on our way," Hank replied, hanging up before Fowler could offer any more choice words.

"Connor!" Hank called, pulling on a pair of jeans and a Knights of the Black Death made his way to the kitchen, where he grabbed his usual coat from the back of a chair and threw it on, noting that his boots were already by the door. Then, he started looking around for Connor.

Hank had invited Connor back to his home after the events of November 11th, 2038; Connor willingly, if not enthusiastically, strolled alongside him after hearing Hank's proposal. Hank couldn't help but wonder why Connor hadn't wanted to join the rest of his android friends, but hadn't bothered to ask. He just chalked it up to their friendship, and with Connor wanting to be free, that would include _living_ freely, which mean deciding where and how he wanted to live. Thus, choosing to live outside of the android 'sphere' was, inadvertently, fulfilling the wishes of his people. Connor probably hadn't thought of it like that, though. Not yet. Even after two years, Connor still wasn't used to the notion of individualism, let alone free will.

Hank spotted him on the couch; though he looked asleep, Hank knew better than that, because he was still an android, and androids _do not_ sleep. From what Connor had told him, he was in some kind of stasis mode, which, he guessed, was to do whatever updates and shit he needed while his system took a break. His suspicions were proven to be true as Connor slowly opened his eyes (which he had, per Hank's request, closed so as to not make Hank uncomfortable) and sat up in a vampire-esque manner. Hank would have laughed at the unnatural, borderline creepy nature of Connor's motions if he hadn't known him. Old habits die hard.

"Connor, we have a fresh case, but we gotta get our asses in gear or I might end up boring myself to death from being jobless," he joked, not bothering to mention his crippling alcoholism, which had _actually_ put him in a decent position for an early demise. Not that Hank cared. Wasn't really important at the moment. What _did_ matter was trying not to just move on, but also adjust to the changes in his living situation. _Their_ living situation.

Connor immediately swung his legs over the side of the couch, stood up with his ridiculously impeccable posture, and went to adjust his non-existent tie, but stopped, confused when his fingers met empty air.

A smile took over a corner of Hank's mouth as he noticed that Connor actually had a physical _habit_ ; this reassured him to no end, to see Connor becoming a little more _Connor_ and a little less _android_ every day, even if it was just a little thing. He wondered just how many more habits he hadn't noticed.

Connor grinned, embarrassed at the irrationality of his motions, and shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "Well, if you're ready, I'm ready, Lieutenant-"

"Sweet Jesus, _Hank_. It's _Hank_ , now, ok? We're not at work yet, so no need to be so goddamn formal all the time, all right?" Hank scolded Connor, making him shift where he stood. Again, old habits die hard; it would have hurt to hear Connor call him that if not for the way Connor's life had been before. Literally every action, every word had been specially designed, _programmed_ into his very being. Rewiring himself from the inside out was probably the hardest thing Connor ever had to do, but Hank was more than glad to help him get used to everything. They were friends; at that point, _good friends,_ and they needed each other to act like it.

"Of course. Hank. Sorry," Connor scratched the back of his neck and looked away, genuinely feeling uncertain of how to act around Hank, and, worse, like he was still trying to figure out how to act 'alive', despite having been programmed to integrate into human society. Perhaps Cyberlife's notion of humanity was flawed. Or maybe they exacerbated pre-existing issues regarding human interaction.

 _Another one_ , Hank thought. _Haven't seen him do that before. Looks like a fuckin' kicked puppy._

"It's fine, Connor," Hank sighed, clapping a reassuring hand on Connor's shoulder and leveling him with a genuine smile. "Let's go look at a bloody, disgusting crime scene at 1:30 in the fuckin' morning, all right?"

Connor laughed, a light sound that both surprised and intrigued Hank.

 _Too much shit goin' on tonight,_ Hank thought as he held open the front door for Connor after an obligatory and enthusiastic petting session for Sumo. _Can't wait to deal with more_.


	2. Chapter 1: The Boys are Back in Town

Hank and Connor pulled up to the house after checking in with the neighborhood security team and the officers outside the scene. Red and blue lights flashed and bounced off the imposing, ivory facade of the 2 million dollar home. From the looks of it, that house could have had at least ten other people living in it, and still had room for more. Knowing that just one man had, before being slaughtered, been living there, _all on his own_ , seemed like a waste of money to Hank.

 _Rich assholes_ , Hank grimaced, opening the door on the driver's side. _Might as well flush their fuckin' paychecks down the shitter._ Hank waited for Connor to get out of the car and come around to his side, then made their way into the house together.

Connor, on the other hand, was taking a look around the house itself. Everything seemed...pristine, for lack of a better word. The shrubs were trimmed, the lawn mowed, windows cleaned; Jamie certainly had someone living with him. Whether it was a human or android, he wasn't sure, but Connor was determined to look further into the matter. It was all too much upkeep for a man that worked long hours, six or seven days a week; the man not only wouldn't have the time to do so much cleaning and gardening, but also wouldn't have the energy.

Connor and Hank then entered the home, taking in the borderline pretentious choices in decoration. The doorframe was large, both welcoming and imposing on anyone who dared to enter. The main hallway on the first floor housed a number of paintings, both famous and obscure; a perfect rendition of Van Gogh's Starry Night and Picasso's Les Demoiselles d'Avignon sat next to Mondrian's Composition II in Red, Blue, and Yellow. Connor knew all of the paintings, their creators, and their histories; he had cross-referenced them with the data cloud and had tried to find any correlations among said paintings, but to no avail. "Weird," Connor said aloud.

"What is it?" Hank asked, his curiosity piqued as he came over to where Connor stood.

"These paintings...they all seem to be randomly chosen. No correlation between anything about them," Connor replied, brow furrowing. Hank stared Connor down with the deadest glare known to man. "What?" Connor asked, a genuinely confused expression taking over his features.

"Connor," Hank continued, "I didn't drag our asses her at _1:30 in the fuckin' morning_ to become art critics-"

"I-I was just stating an observation, Lieutenant. That's all," Connor reassured Hank, shaking his head and letting out a small scoff. "I am fully aware of where we are and what the objective of our presence is-" Hank dramatically pretended to vomit, even gagging and putting a hand over his mouth.

Now, Connor was _definitely_ confused. "What's up, Lieutenant?"

"It's just...try not to sound so damn professional all the time. Using words like 'objective' kinda reminds me of how you used to be, you know?" Hank shook his head and sighed, turning to take a look at the living room. "You're not a piece of plastic, Connor. So don't sound like one."

Connor grimaced at his own demeanor. He hadn't meant to speak like that, he just... _did_. Naturally, Connor followed him to log the evidence and take in as much from the scene as he possibly could.

Connor bent down on one knee to scan the glass shards by the front of the sofa; he was able to identify that they had previously been a whiskey glass. His scanners also picked up traces of whiskey, 40% alcohol content. Connor picked up a small piece of glass that seemed to have nicked Jamie's foot; upon sampling the blood (and, of course, with Hank's obligatory, very audible objection of "Fucking _disgusting_ , Connor!"), his assumption was confirmed.

Connor walked around to the other side of the couch. A long, ivory section of curtain was strewn across the floor; Connor picked it up, turning it over every which way to scan it for any potential fingerprints. Unfortunately, he found none. _The assailant either wore gloves, or is an android_ , Connor concluded. Though he couldn't detect any out-of-place strands of fabric, Connor still considered the possibility of gloves. _Some things just never go out of style_ , he thought, running a hand through his hair.

He then noticed that the TV was on, which reinforced the idea that Jamie had been thoroughly distracted and exhausted. It was definitely enough for anyone considering trying to kill Jamie to do so. Reconstructing the initial attempt on Jamie's life was easy enough. Since there were no signs of forced entry, it was most likely someone he knew. Despite the multitude of windows being open, Jamie could afford the cost of air conditioning the entire home; thus, if anyone had opened windows, it was probably someone Jamie knew and trusted, and not Jamie himself.

Connor saw Jamie's reconstructed figure sitting on the couch, taking in the nightly news reports as someone moved around behind him, slowly taking off the curtain. Then, the murderer threw the curtain around his neck and had tried to strangle him, but Jamie had somehow managed to escape his or her grip, dropping his glass in the process.

Then, something else occurred to Connor. He called Hank over.

"What'd you find?" Hank inquired, glancing at Connor's mouth.

Connor grinned, "Nothing much. Pretty obvious that it started right here, in the living room, if you ask me," he paused. "Don't worry, I haven't needed to sample anything else just yet," Connor walked to the front door, observing the locks. "Lieutenant, can I ask you a _non-_ personal question?"

Hank let out a hearty laugh, "Nice one, kid. Shoot," he gestured to the door, an open invitation to articulate his train of thought.

"If the perpetrator was someone Jamie knew, I doubt he or she would've climbed through one of those windows. So, they most likely came through the front door. Right?" Connor questioned, meeting the Lieutenant's curious expression.

"Yeah, probably. There were no prints on the windows in the living room, anyway, so the murderer probably wanted to air out the crime scene themself," Hank considered, "God knows I can only stand the smell of that fuckin' body for so much longer."

"Right. Ok, so Jamie's prints are on the inside doorknob. But why couldn't he get out of his own home when the perp could get in?"

"Something to do with the security system, probably. The technological one, not the joke that this neighborhood considers 'security personnel'," Hank continued. "Could you...maybe scan the security system of the house?"

"Got it, Lieutenant," Connor paused, taking a moment to assess the integrity of the system in question. As they had expected, the system contained critical code-related errors. Or, at least, they resembled errors; the problem was in the code, not in the physical reliability of the security programming. It looked as if someone had created a homemade virus, then somehow integrated it into the security system.

"Well?" Hank asked, crossing his arms. "What'd you see?"

"There's...some weird strings of code. The security was definitely hacked, though I'm not sure how. Either way, it looks like someone was pulling the strings here-"

"No. Stop," Hank waved his hand, visibly irritated, "It's too goddamn early for puns. I'll have to punch that little, round baby face of yours if you so much as _think_ about saying another one."

Connor giggled, a sound that even he, himself, didn't expect to bubble up out of his throat. "No pun intended, Lieutenant. I apologize for any offense you may have taken."

"Probably the worst apology I've ever heard in my fuckin' life. Not accepted," Hank grinned, nodding at the front door. "Anyway, what's this about someone tampering with the security system?"

"Yeah. Somebody definitely planned for this to happen, and he or she is more than familiar with technology. Jamie was able to free himself and incapacitate his aggressor long enough to try and escape in what _would_ have been the easiest way possible. So, he tried the door, but had to make his way to the kitchen," Connor started, making his way to the kitchen, Hank in tow.

Connor bent down to analyze the knife closest to the stove and farthest away from the fridge. His scanner picked up a match for Jamie's fingerprints. "He grabbed a knife to defend himself, but dropped it when he was fighting off his attacker. Jamie was in extremely good health for a man his age, so he likely wasn't easy to take down."

"And I guess that other knife is the perp's?" Hank suggested, gesturing to the yellow evidence card-screen that was marked with a 3.

"I would assume so, yes," Connor said before scanning the aforementioned knife. "No fingerprints on it, though. Again, I'm not sure if the assailant is an android or a human, but I'm leaning towards android."

"Why do you say that?" Hank asked, amused. "How do you know it's not just an equally strong, if not stronger, more agile male or female?"

Connor rounded the corner from the kitchen, and entered a large space that contained a treadmill, leg press machine, elliptical machine, dumbbells...pretty much every piece of athletic equipment imaginable, gesturing to the entire room with an ostentatious sweep of his arm. "Behold."

"I see your fuckin' point. Jeez, Connor, could you imagine being so self-absorbed in your physical appearance? Worrying about what you eat, how much water to drink, what you do, even how much you sleep...all too goddamn much for any _stable_ person," Hank finished, shaking his head, long hair falling in front of his face.

"I dunno, Lieutenant...it might be good for you to maybe-"

"Maybe _what_?" Hank narrowed his eyes. "You wanna finish that sentence, Connor?"

"Did I say something? Nevermind, doesn't matter right now," Connor let out a nervous laugh and pulled his sweatshirt away from his chest. "Anyway," he continued, leading Hank back through the kitchen and up the stairs, "The mild scrapes on each of the knives suggest there was a minor scuffle involving them, after which both parties ended up dropping their weapons. Needless to say, even without weapons, Jamie very much _lost_ the fight."

"Well, no shit, Sherlock," Hank commented as he walked alongside on the wide spiral staircase.

"Who are you talking to, Hank? It's Connor, not Sherlock, whoever that is..." Connor replied as they reached the top of the staircase.

Hank stopped dead in his tracks and slowly turned around to face Connor in complete, utter disbelief. For a moment, Connor had successfully schooled his expression into what he experienced when Hank had vaguely answered his question about why Hank despised androids. Then, he saw Connor's lips twinge the slightest bit upward, and gently socked him in the shoulder. "You little shit," Hank chuckled. "You really fuckin' had me there for a sec."

The lightened mood provided a _great_ cushion for the gruesome sight that met their eyes.

Jamie's body was leaned up against the headboard, head slumped back onto the wall. His chest had a large, jagged hole in it with stringy pieces of flesh hanging off the edges where his heart would have been. His heart, all in one bloody, meaty, piece, sat in his palms, which had been placed in his lap. Jamie's throat had been slashed from ear to ear, and he had been left to bleed out; some of the sticky, viscous blood pooled in his hands, while the rest of it stained his clothes and the comforter, all the way down to Jamie's knees. Jamie's blue eyes were still open, staring ahead at nothing.

Hank felt his stomach jolt, and hissed in a breath. "Good fuckin' god, Fowler. What the fuck?" he said, going to Fowler's corner of the room, where he could watch the crime scene analysts go about their work from a distance. "I know you said this was some fucked up shit, but..." Hank paused shaking his head. "Have they found anything interesting? Other than the dead guy."

Fowler nodded at Hank, folding his arms across his chest in, though he would never tell Hank, approval. "Glad to see you dragged your sorry ass out of bed. I see you brought your plastic partner-"

"Connor. His name is Connor, Fowler," Hank interrupted, watching as Connor went about his business scanning the body and the surrounding scene in their entirety.

"What the fuck ever, Hank," Fowler growled, "We haven't found much, outside of the

obvious," Fowler continued, nodding at the body. "Fuckin' disgusting. Messy, too. You'd think that if someone was gonna kill somebody, they'd at least do it at a more reasonable hour."

"Yeah, well, we're all here now, so let's just deal with this shit-"

"Hank!" Connor was excitedly waving him over, a gleam of ingenuity in his eyes.

"What'd you find, Connor?" Hank addressed him, making sure to not get _as close_ to the body as Connor was. There were still some thing that would always unnerve empathetic _human_ beings, but said things were still unrecognized by androids; such things included the goriness of any given murder scene, especially this one.

"I scanned the heart; there appears to be something inside," Connor started as he reached towards the wholly unappealing organ.

"WaIT CONNOR, NO!" Hank yelled, hand shooting out to stop Connor's arm. "No more fuckin' sampling shit tonight. Let's just..get somebody else to take it out." Connor jumped and yanked his arm out of Hank's grasp, rubbing the spot where Hank's fingers had closed around his wrist.

"Um, right! Huh. That makes a lot more sense, come to think of it," Connor rambled as he moved out of a crime scene investigator's way to let them do their job.

"Right. No sense in contaminating perfectly good evidence," Hank offered, but the real rationale had more to do with touching some dude's heart...literally.

The investigator took out a pair of tweezer-like tools, and carefully extracted the object, holding it in the palm of his hand: it was a gold wedding ring. Connor asked for the ring to be rotated so he could see the engraving on the inside:

 **06 - 01 - 2017**

 **You have my heart**

Hank threw up in his mouth a little upon Connor's brief relay of the message.

"Find everything you need, Connor? I'm ready to head outta here. Never in all my years as a Lieutenant have I ever see anything so... _targeted_ ," Hank commented, placing a hand on Connor's shoulder.

"Yes, I feel that the evidence I currently have in my possession is...sufficient," Connor conceded. After Hank let Fowler know that they were heading home, Connor allowed Hank to guide him out of the room, back down the spiral staircase, and into their car.

All with Hank's hand on the small of Connor's back.


	3. Chapter 2: Family

Connor got up long before Hank; of course, it wasn't out of the ordinary for him to do so, as Hank had a tendency to show up to the station pretty late. Connor's comparatively lessened need for 'rest' meant that he had a _lot_ of free time to do as he pleased. Whether or not it was too much time to himself...well, the jury's still out on that one. After he checked on Hank, he made a mental note to himself to take another look around the house. It was still, according to human standards, early in the morning; waking up Hank at 8 am would, without a doubt, make the man want to strangle him, and after taking a look at last night's homicide, the idea of being strangled seemed rather unnerving. Connor had just gained the ability to feel alive, so he wasn't going to squander the opportunity so soon.

Connor went to check that Hank was doing ok, even when he was asleep. After they got home last night, he made sure Hank didn't try to down a beer or six in an attempt to repress the images of the crime scene, but Connor could see the way he flipped over, readjusted the pillows beneath his head, threw the blankets on and off of himself. He wasn't sure if the tossing and turning was entirely due to the detailed, almost specialized nature of the crime scene...or if Hank might be having a nightmare regarding the accident that killed his son, Cole, three years ago. Either way, Hank's disturbance was becoming more evident by the minute; Connor couldn't bring himself to look away, but at the same time, he didn't _want_ to watch his friend suffer. Strangling be damned, Hank was having bad dreams. For how long, Connor didn't know, but the bags under Hank's eyes were very telling of his lingering trauma.

Even though Hank was clearly struggling to settle down, Connor decided it was a safer bet to give Hank a few more minutes of restless sleep before trying to wake him up. _Crappy sleep is better than no sleep at all_ , Connor thought. _Need Hank at full strength...or consciousness. Better let him be._

Connor's natural curiosity drove him to explore Hank's house. It seemed that every time he decided to take a look around, he found something new. Thus, Connor had yet another opportunity to peruse the bookshelf behind the sofa. A myriad of genres, authors, and subject matters merely sat on the shelf, a layer of dust having settled on the shelves and the books themselves. Connor figured that Hank probably only had the will to browse through case files, and even that was limited to the time Hank actually showed up for work. Connor picked out a book titled _Ceremony_ by Leslie Marmon Silko; he dusted off the blue cover with a silvery feather printed on it, and skimmed the entire book. Though the stylistic choice of flashbacks and a seemingly random bout of violence that served as the tumultuous conclusion made the novel difficult to understand, Connor supposed it was an interesting read. The novel had touched on identity crises, and for him, that certainly hit close to home. Connor gingerly slipped the book back in its place, and reminded himself to dust the house later.

Connor then made the mistake of going to check the cupboards, then the fridge; as expected, the only food item in the cupboard, a measly loaf of bread, was so moldy it was beyond saving. Something about the blueish-grey color that invaded almost every surface of the bread made him feel unsettled, so he was glad to close the nearest cupboard door as quickly as he had opened it. For the moment, Connor overlooked the startling amount of alcohol that _also_ resided in the cupboard. As for the fridge, the only things in there were bottles upon bottles of beer and part of a Jimmy John's sandwich he'd seen Hank consume two days ago.

Connor felt an overwhelming sense of guilt settle into his synthetic gut; he had been so preoccupied with reprimanding the Lieutenant on his dangerous eating habits during the day that he'd forgotten about the paradoxical lack of food at home. It didn't help that he didn't even have a stomach himself, not to mention he couldn't feel the sensation of hunger as the younger androids could. Connor resolved to learn how to cook, and he would gladly accept the self-appointed duty of cooking for the Lieutenant. After all, Connor didn't need programs to tell him exactly how to do everything; he could simply _adapt_ and learn how to complete new tasks.

Connor tossed the moldy bread into the trash, then swiftly picked up the overstuffed trash bag and threw it in the larger bin on the curb. For the first time, he was glad he could deactivate his sense of smell on command; a tiny grin appeared on Connor's face, glad to evade the surely putrid stench of hot garbage.

When he came back inside, Sumo greeted him at the door with a combination of lethargic, slobbery licks to the face and knocking Connor down on his ass. Connor couldn't help but smile at Sumo's antics and scratch behind his ears as he pet down his back. "Hello there, Sumo! You seem pretty energetic this morning, unlike your owner. You must be hungry. Don't worry, I'll get you fed."

Sumo visibly perked up at the mention of food, went straight to his food and water bowls, and lay down on the carpet to wait. After keeping his promise on feeding Sumo and giving him some water, Connor pet him a few more times before going to wake Hank up. It was much closer to 9 am than 8 am at that point; it seemed like Hank was having trouble sleeping anyway, so what would be the harm in waking him up?

Connor slowly opened the door to Hank's bedroom; though the squeaking of the hinges was barely noticable, Connor still cringed as he opened the door all the way and treaded over to Hank's sleeping form.

Hank looked ten years younger when he was asleep: the wrinkles in his forehead and the rest of his face seemed to blur, almost disappear in his resting state. Due to the nature of sleep, his steely, blue eyes were also hidden, which contributed to Hank's youthful, less troubled appearance. His slightly wavy, silvery gray hair was splayed across the pillow he wasn't holding with both arms, close to his body. Every now and then, he would flip the pillow over, pull the covers over himself more or just shove them off, maybe roll over to the other side of the bed. Hank's brow would crease and relax, and he would shiver at times. Connor was beyond concerned. _Definitely time to put an end to this_.

Connor walked over to the gray curtains and drew them open, sparing a glance behind himself to see if Hank would wake up.

"Oh, fuck _off_ with this shit," Hank groaned, using a pillow to shield his eyes from the sudden infiltration of sunlight into every nook and cranny of the room.

Yep, Hank was awake.

"You should probably get up soon, Lieu-Hank. We need to head to the station to check out the files on 's case," Connor stated matter-of-factly, directing himself to go to Hank's current side of the bed.

"Let's make a deal: I don't leave this bed for, say," Hank paused, taking the pillow off his head and turning to face Connor, "another two or three hours? And you can go...occupy yourself. God knows what you do when I'm asleep," Hank muttered, putting his head back under the pillow.

"Hank, I'd really appreciate it if you stopped _bitching_ for two seconds and got the hell out of bed," Connor started, "Please."

For a moment, Hank didn't reply, choosing to remain under the pillow and simply...process what he could have sworn on Cole's grave he'd just heard.

"Connor...did you just... _swear_ at me?" Hank inquired, eyes comically widened in disbelief. "Twice?"

Connor quickly moved towards Hank's bedroom door. He took a step or two out of the room, then paused. "I plead the fifth, Lieutenant. I'd say more, but I'd like to speak to my lawyer first," he grinned, closing the door behind him.

Hank Anderson couldn't help but sit up in his bed, rubbing his hands over his tired eyes. His own fuckin' android had the audacity to not only wake him up before noon, but also swear at him _twice_ before he was even awake to fully experience the rare occurrence. The changes in Connor's post-deviancy persona were going to give him a full-on heart attack before his cholesterol levels could. Connor could be quite the smartass for someone that wasn't even human.

Hank threw on a solid green button-up over a white undershirt. He picked up the pair of jeans he'd thrown on the floor from (he hoped) last night, put on his boots, and grabbed his trusty jacket on the way out of his room.

Connor was dutifully waiting on the couch, which faced away from the small hallway; he had let his chin rest in one hand, the other arm laid across his middle, eyes closed. Hank walked out and tapped Connor on the shoulder; Connor jumped, whirling around in time to see a shit-eating grin on Hank's face. "Serves you right, you cheeky little shit. C'mon," Hank nodded to the door. Connor practically flew off the couch and out the door, allowing the Lieutenant to hold the door for him.

"I'm gonna stop at McDonald's real quick," Hank said as he started the ignition.

Connor let him roll up to the closest McDonald's, order his two sausage egg biscuits, and both receive and consume his food before bringing up Hank's eating habits. They had just arrived at the station; after Hank put the car in park and turned the ignition off, Connor almost immediately placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Listen, I don't intend to target your eating habits again, Hank, but I figured we're actually friends now, so...hopefully, that makes it easier to talk about it," Connor started, then cleared his synthetic throat. "I was thinking..." Connor hesitated.

"...Yeah?" Hank was intrigued, but his gaze was expectant. "What're you tryin' to say?"

If Connor could blush then, he probably would have. He didn't want to accidentally chip away at their relationship by annoying Hank, but caring for Hank had become a priority...of sorts. "Ah. Well, maybe...I could try learning how to cook?" When Hank didn't respond for a beat, he continued. "It was just a suggestion, I mean, we don't _have_ to if you're not in agreement. After all, it is your house, your rules, Hank, so actually, why don't you decide-" Connor began to ramble.

"Connor." Connor's jaw audibly clamped shut.

"Yes...?"

"Last night, when you tried to bring up me needing some more time outside my house...I was probably just fuckin' exhausted. So I probably sounded like an ass," Hank turned away from Connor to stare at the pavement in front of his car. "To be honest with you, my home is pretty damn comfy, which is kinda why I don't go power walking any chance I get. Power walkers look fuckin' dumb, anyway," Hank turned his head to look at Connor again. "But, anyway, I could probably use a home cooked meal. Haven't had one of those years," he chuckled. "Things were different then, and they're even more different now. I don't give a shit what you decide to food-wise, just...we'll talk about it later, ok?"

"Ok, Lieutenant," Connor agreed, grinning from ear to ear, a slight bounce in his step as he headed into the station.

"I said we'll _talk about it later_!" Connor was already out of earshot. "Goddamnit," he muttered to himself. _What did I just get myself into?_

Hank wasn't ready to admit to himself that it was more than just the food or exercise recommendations that he appreciated. At the back of his brain, he admitted that it was nice for another being to genuinely care about his well being, not just whether he was physically alive or not. A twinge of doubt wormed its way into his thoughts; maybe he didn't deserve it. Maybe he wasn't worthy of the compassion being thrown his way in copious amounts.

When Hank Anderson walked in the station and saw Connor's focused, intense expression break into a small smile the second he saw Hank...

Well, he didn't give two _shits_ about worthiness after that.

Connor sat at the desk directly in front of Hank's, synthetic skin retracted up to his wrist, revealing the hard, white material underneath. He was scanning the case files, optical units trained on the terminal. Hank could only watch and wait for his verbal input.

"Our men searched every room, every vent in that house; even the basement was empty. I would assume the suspect left; judging by the tracks that lead out the back door, our guy left that way," Hank flipped through the log of evidence they'd picked up again. "The android was probably the one that opened all those windows, too...but _why_? The air conditioning system was already on; we could _all_ tell that much. So why open all those goddamn windows?"

"Maybe...maybe other androids showed up later? Might explain why there seemed to be an alarming lack of genetic material other than Jamie's at the crime scene," Connor finished scanning the files, slowly removing his hand from the terminal. "The AP700 may have been used as a vehicle for the rest of the crime to be carried out. Considering Chris's decade-long comraderie with Jamie, and his choice to continue working for him, even after the deviant uprising...something, some kind of empathy still left in Chris's system may have prevented him from doing anything more than what he was directed to do. Strangled him in the kitchen, then a murder crew took over. Or so it seems."

"And what about the arrangement of Jamie's body? Holding his heart in his palms with the wedding ring inside? Maybe a lover or wife?"

"As it so happens, Jamie _was_ married to a Mary Stevens; they got married in 2015, but they divorced in 2037. Guess what day they got divorced?" Connor prompted, a small smile gracing his lips.

"Uh, not sure. Halloween? Christmas? No, wait..are you serious?" Hank questioned, incredulous. "They got divorced on _Valentine's Day?_ "

"Well, it was more like she served him the papers that day, but they actually battled over some property and financial issues for months in court after trying mediation. They seemed to really clash," Connor mused, reviewing the information in his mind palace. Connor continued to scan through more information, and almost laughed when he discovered another interesting aspect of Jamie's dysfunctional family life. "You know, she married again."

"Well, spit it out, Connor, we don't have all day. Who'd she marry?"

"They married on June 8th, 2039. A little less than a month before Jamie was killed. She married his brother, Mark."


	4. Chapter 3: Friendship

"Good fuckin' God, Connor, are you kiddin' me?" Hank laughed, running a hand through his hair and sighing deeply. "No family I know has needed therapy more than these fuckin' people do. Any chance we can get a hold of em'?"

"Not at the moment; according to Mark's employment records, they just got on a four-week cruise in the Bahamas. Would you like me to access their contact information?"

"Do what you gotta do, Connor. We gotta talk to these people somehow, seeing as they're our only 'witnesses' right now," Hank finished, noncommittally shrugging his shoulders and leaning back into his desk chair.

Connor placed two fingers to his LED, which began to flash between yellow and blue as Connor's eyes rapidly blinked. Connor frowned as his LED returned to its normal blue, and his blinking pattern stabilized. "I'm afraid that they are both unreachable at the moment; neither of them would answer the phone." Connor shook his leg, his brow furrowed as he worried his bottom lip. "They might know something, and the fact that they're not answering their phones is quite suspicious, Lieutenant. We need to know more about their respective relationships with Jamie in order to progress this case," Connor sighed, his frustration making itself known.

"In the meantime, we'll have their house placed under surveillance. Make no mistake, Connor. Eventually, they have to come home, and we'll be waiting for them when they do," Hank assured him, getting up out of his chair to pace around his desk. "We could also contact the cruise management team to locate Mark and Mary; that way, they could set up an appointment to talk to us before they even get off the boat."

"On it," Connor's LED blinked yellow a few times before he was able to get ahold of the cruise management team. "Hello? Yes, this is Connor, the android currently working with the Detroit police department's homicide team." Connor paused, smiling a bit. "Yes, I'm the android from the news. No, I'm no longer affiliated with Cyberlife. Would you mind if I talked to your superior? I need information on two of the current passengers on the June Bahamas trip." Apart from shaking his leg, Connor sat still, awaiting the manager's arrival. "Yes, thank you for agreeing to speak with me; I appreciate your generosity, . Our current case concerns the recent murder of Jamie Lyndon, a 50 year old man, in his home. We feel that we'd have a better understanding of what might have happened if we could speak with Lyndon and Lyndon as soon as possible." Connor listened, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the desk. "Of course. Yes. Thank you for your time, . We'll be in touch."

"So?" Hank asked. "What'd he say? Were they there?"

"According to , they are both registered in their system as current passengers of the ship; he even confirmed having seen them walking around on the deck numerous times. Right now, they're out in Clarence Town, and completely unreachable until they actually get back _on_ the ship. In other words, we have to wait either way."

"Well, Connor, it looks like we hit our limit on the case for today, and, depending on when the newlyweds to contact us, maybe for a while. I guess that's it for now," Hank shrugged, sitting back down in his chair to review other recent cases of post-deviancy androids murdering their employers.

One case ended with a missing AP400 slamming her employer's head on the corner of a table, another with a GJ500 snapping the neck of his boss. They had both been treated as isolated incidents, without any relation to each other. Each initial kill was efficient, and both androids seemed to have left the crime scene immediately afterwards; yet, neither of the victims were so... _artfully_ arranged after their demise.

"Connor, I might have something here," Hank nodded at the files he had open on his terminal. "I know you've already seen these files, so you know what happened. Both victims were killed by androids they employed. Androids they trusted. It's more about what _did_ happen with Jamie's murder, and what didn't happen with theirs."

"Please continue, Lieutenant. What do you mean?" Connor asked, walking around to Hank's desk and sitting on the corner.

"The other two victims were just...left there. No further interaction with the bodies after they were actually killed. Jamie, however, wasn't as lucky. The killers had a strong enough connection to Jamie to fuckin' come _into_ the man's home and mutilate his body. Somebody really had it out for the guy," Hank shook his head, closing the files. "Considering we can't interview his ex-wife and brother right now, we should probably just head outta here in another hour or two. I still gotta take care of some paperwork. Feel free to do whatever," Hank said, opening a bunch of different files, identification documents, etc.

For the remainder of their time at the station, Connor roamed around and visited memorable spots of his first ever involvement with the DPD: the spot where Gavin punched him in his Thirium pump, the holding cell of Carlos Ortiz's deviant, the wall Hank had thrown him up against and threatened his life. After another half hour of walking around, Connor returned to his desk and went into stasis mode, closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair.

As luck had it, Gavin walked into the station, spotted Connor, and immediately made his way over. "The fuck are you doin' here, you plastic prick?" he addressed Connor, leaning on his desk (also, a little too close in general). "Last time I saw you, you were screwin' with all those androids. Crafty little shit."

Connor chose not to answer him, and opted to keep his eyes closed instead. He didn't really feel like dealing with Gavin's unnecessary hatred towards him, but knowing that he'd do whatever he needed to do to get rid of him.

"You ignorin' me?" Gavin got closer, placing a hand on Connor's shoulder. Connor tried his best to maintain his composure; deviance had graced him with emotional responses, but that didn't mean he could lash out whenever he wanted. There were still boundaries, and Gavin was just doing what he normally did: he was testing those limits, nudging him for some kind of response. Connor had already resolved to remain, within reason, as neutral as possible.

"I advise you to keep your hands off me, Gavin," Connor said, opening his eyes to stare directly into Gavin's seething expression. "After all, legislation regarding android civil rights is still in the works, so if I were you I wouldn't-"

"Listen here, you piece of shit. I don't give a shit about your little android 'rights' or whatever you _think_ makes you even remotely on the same level as me," Gavin grabbed a handful of Connor's shirt, yanked him up, and slammed him against the wall, leaning in enough for Connor to catch a whiff of his coffee breath. "Don't think for a _second_ that you can tell _me_ what to do, you absolute fuckin' machine-" he brought his other hand around Connor's throat, squeezing so hard that the synthetic skin on his throat began to retract.

Hank shot up from his seat and had started to run around his desk when Connor grabbed hold of the edges of Gavin's jacket and headbutted him, sending him into the back of the chair, holding his head. Connor grabbed Gavin's shoulders and kneed him in the groin, then turned him around and forced him to his knees. Gavin kicked at Connor's foot, disrupting Connor's balance and giving Gavin an opening to straddle his chest, knees holding his arms down. Hank came over when he saw that Connor no longer had the upper hand, and kicked Gavin in the chest hard enough to make him roll over (and off of Connor). Hank helped Connor up with a hand on his arm, then moved to shield Connor.

"The fuck is your goddamn problem, Reed? What do you have against Connor?" he asked. For a second, Gavin looked as if he had the audacity to provide an answer, but Hank cut him off. "I don't fuckin' care what you believe, but since you still wanna act like a caveman, consider this a warning. Take some time to cool off, 'cause it looks like you assaulted my partner here, and if you _don't_ want me to report your stupid ass, " he paused, nodding toward the entrance to the station, "I suggest you drag yourself outta here with the dignity you still have left."

Gavin continued to cough as he got up, stumbling out the double doors. "Fuck you both," he spat, storming out of the station.

"Well that was...something," Connor said, straightening his tie. He had decided to wear the one and only suit Cyberlife had given him; it was an ironically comforting touch of normalcy in a rapidly changing society. "I'm not really sure why he feels the urge to threaten me every time he sees me."

"He's just scared of you, Connor," Hank replied, slinging an arm around Connor's shoulder. "There's always gonna be people that are scared of change, those that'd rather attack or try to kill any manifestations of progress. You really kicked his ass back there," Hank smiled, patting his back, then putting his arm back by his own side. "God knows that asshole deserved it. And don't worry. Even though he left, that fucker won't get away with it."

"You know, you didn't have to step in back there. I could've taken him down on my own," Connor huffed, taking out a quarter and rolling it through his fingers, purposefully not looking at Hank. "I almost did."

"Connor, I've seen what you can do; you can take out groups of armed soldiers using your bare hands. Don't you think I know that?" Hank threw on his coat, grabbing his keys. "Maybe I wanted to step in because I saw that you, a friend, were in trouble."

"But..." Connor wanted to object, but chose to keep his mouth shut, secretly grateful for Hank having his back. Most people just assumed that androids were invincible simply because they weren't made of organic materials; according to Connor, Hank seemed to overlook that fact in favor of protecting him, regardless of the severity of the situation, the probability that either party will overcome the other...

Hank was a good man, and a good friend.

 _No_ , Connor thought. _A great friend, and an even better man._

Hank glanced at Connor multiple times on the way home, and noticed he was smiling pretty much the entire time. _Fuckin' androids_ , he thought, a fond smile gracing his own lips.


	5. Chapter 4: Domesticity

"Hank, you almost ready?" Connor called out, digging through his side of the dresser for a suitable pair of pants and t-shirt. He was having a hard time deciding between a violet v-neck and a three-quarter-sleeved grey henley shirt.

The other day, Hank had encouraged Connor to go out and get some new clothes; seeing him walk around in the same suit or pair of jeans and sweatshirt reminded Hank that Connor still didn't 'want', outside of his equal rights and treatment, for much, which included material things, or things that humans typically sought out. There were still fundamental differences not only in how they thought but also what they believed to be important. _So many people worry about thriving, when androids didn't even get to think about survival more than half the time_. It seemed that the thing Connor wanted most was to be loyal to Hank, which was touching on many levels, and don't get Hank wrong, he was grateful, and still is, but...

He wanted Connor to want other things, too.

A key aspect of becoming human is to want things you don't necessarily need to survive, but still want to possess because you have the option of getting them. The last part of Maslow's Hierarchy: self-actualization. The need to grow and discover more about oneself. Hank wasn't a very materialistic man himself, but he figured it couldn't hurt to help Connor develop his personality in any way, shape, or form possible. Using tangible, material objects to convey a much larger, more personal point would be a good way of helping the very literal, somewhat naive android he considered to be his friend to begin to understand, maybe even accept the notion of individualism, of being one's own person.

Getting Connor to realize that he now has his own choices to make should extend way beyond his actions; it had to reflect in his clothing, what music he'd come to like, what he liked to do in his free time. Connor had to become his own person in any and every way possible, and Hank was willing to give him a push wherever he needed it. On the other hand, Hank was never really sure if that was entirely for Connor's sake. Maybe he couldn't stand to live with someone that didn't fully understand human nature, didn't try to emulate it in its entirety. Too robotic, too content with remaining a machine, a tool for another being's careless, often brutal use.

After getting to know Connor for a few months, it was sometimes hard to believe that he'd ever blindly followed a series of numbers and letters. Other times, every single one of Connor's hesitations, his carefully chosen words, the uncertainty that seemed to hold him back in every sense of the word...it all began to weigh on Hank. Letting Connor deal with something as overwhelming as determining his own identity entirely on his own would have made Hank feel guilty. After everything Connor had done for him...what kind of friend would he be if he didn't support him?

So, Hank drove him around to a few clothing stores, browsing around for a number of casual outfit choices, picking out a couple of suits and ties, and selecting a few pairs of shoes for Connor's newly expanding wardrobe. Hank just bought him whatever he decided on, not wanting to subdue any part of Connor's freedom. When Connor asked him why he'd been so insistent on getting him new clothes, he'd just told him, "That Cyberlife suit is starting to look a little worn out, Connor. It's the least I could do." Connor had nodded, accepting but not truly believing Hank's answer.

Meanwhile, Connor still hadn't decided on what shirt to wear; to him, the grey henley really clung to his shoulders and fit his frame well, but the violet was so aesthetically pleasing...he didn't usually get hung up on such a minor decision, and he was frustrated to no end.

Lucky for him, Hank chose to exit the bathroom in the middle of his crisis. "Oh, great! Hank, could you help me out here?" Connor frowned, standing up from his crouching position and going over to Hank, who stood in the doorway of his own bedroom, staring at Connor's bare torso.

"You...don't have chest hair?" Hank asked aloud, eyes grazing over the smooth, pale synthetic skin of his chest. He was considering asking about hair in other places, but thought better of it; not only did he not know how Connor would take that, but also he thought it would be indecent of him to ask, considering he and Connor were still getting to know each other on a different, platonic level. For the time being, he filed that question away in the very back of his mind.

"What?" Connor asked, trying to make sure he heard Hank right. "No. Cyberlife designed my appearance as they designed a multitude of other androids' for them," he grimaced. "It's kind of weird, if you think about it. Humans always get to," Connor threw a hand out, "roll the dice with their partners. You all get to at least have _some_ say in the way you'd like your offspring to look, especially with the advanced genetic modification techniques, such as 'test tube babies', that some have access to. Androids?" Connor visibly shrunk into himself, shrugging, "Our appearances are always mapped out, always predetermined by beings that have infinitely more possibilities than we ever will. Always to serve their purpose," Connor finished, puffing out a breath, then holding up the shirts in both his hands. "If you will, would you mind choosing which shirt I should wear? I've been trying to decide for more than five minutes now, and it's driving me up the wall..."

"Hands down, the violet shirt. You might wanna try a little bit more color for a change, but it's just my suggestion." Hank clapped a hand on Connor's shoulder, looking him dead in the eye. "And for what it's worth, Connor, you look just fine to me. Trust me, you'll have a shit-ton of opportunities to make a hell of a lot more decisions," Hank's hand slid down his arm, giving his bicep a squeeze before ambling down the hallway.

Connor remained where he stood for a moment, glancing between both shirts for a few more seconds before laying the grey henley on the bed. He threw on the violet v-neck and cast the grey henley into the dresser for another day. Connor slipped on a pair of black vans, then got up to readjust his skinny jeans, running a hand through his hair and checking the rest of his reflection afterward. He then joined Hank, who was browsing through something on his tablet in the living room. Hank heard his footsteps, turning around to get up and meet him halfway. "Let's go. Got grocery shopping to do."

* * *

Hank pushed the cart while Connor scanned each aisle they walked down, checking for the best quality items with the farthest expiration dates. Occasionally, he'd have to ask for Hank's help to reach a particularly high item or two that he couldn't get to, even on the tips of his toes. Hank would always respond with a "Sure thing, honey," and smirk as he reached up and easily retrieved the desired item, after which Connor would roll his eyes, respond with a jokingly strained "Thank you," and continue on with their search.

Connor made sure to choose a host of foods, not just the frozen meals Hank was used to eating outside of his wondrously varied diet of burgers, donuts, and pizza; to Connor, it was a miracle that Hank wasn't at least a hundred pounds heavier than he was. Connor also wanted to try cooking a small, simple meal, that night; when he was browsing through recipes earlier, he'd decided on something simple, but surely doable for someone with his lack of culinary expertise: chicken with rice. He was keeping it a secret by periodically getting the ingredients in between picking out other things, such as honeydew apples, bags of steamable vegetables, cold cuts, white bread, eggs...in other words, food Hank either reluctantly conceded to buying or, in the case of honeydew apples, enthusiastically (though he desperately tried not to show it lest he give Connor the satisfaction of an unspoken 'you're right') placed in the cart himself.

Nowadays, the self-checkout stations were designed to be similar in appearance to MRI-machines but different in composition, as the checkout machines contained the same LEDs and CCD components integrated into the original handheld scanners from more than a decade ago. Hank slid the cart into the body of the scanner, which ran a 'laser' over all the items at once and displayed his total on the built-in screen towards the end. Hank placed his hand on the handprint recognition scanner to pay for his purchase, after which they headed home to settle in for the evening.

* * *

"Let me help you, Hank. I can always make a second or third trip-"

"Connor, I got this. I'm not disabled, you know. I can pull my own weight," Hank shook off the hold Connor had on his upper arm. "You just told me you're cookin' me dinner, anyway. Might as well contribute," he dismissed Connor as he shrugged the grocery bags up farther on his arms.

Connor bent down into the backseat and swept the rest of the groceries into his arms, then kicked the car door shut behind him. He let it go, knowing that Hank was only trying to help and felt like he owed Connor his help.

Once in the kitchen, Connor grimaced at the condition of the stove and counters, seeing that they looked a bit grimy and could definitely use a good scrubbing. Fortunately, he had anticipated as such and had taken it upon himself to pick out some cleaning supplies to sanitize the area as best as possible. Connor got out the decent-sized navy blue bucket, which had a four-pack of sponges, a bottle of dishwasher liquid, some rags, and a 16 oz. bottle of undiluted white vinegar inside, and hurriedly carried it over into the kitchen. As Connor broke out a sponge, ran it under some water, poured the Dawn over it, and began to scrub at the wooden countertops in earnest, Hank came over to just _watch_ him work.

Connor scrubbed like a madman that had just killed someone, the police had been called and were already on their way, and he had little to no time to clean the blood up. Hank couldn't help but take the slightest bit of offense, watching Connor work so hard to clean a countertop that didn't even look _that_ bad; after all, Hank did make sure to wipe them off every now and then. Otherwise, his home would start to smell. Indecent, even for a dedicated alcoholic.

"Connor?" Hank tried to catch his attention, but Connor seemed to be more focused on the task at hand than anybody ever should be. "Connor!" he slammed his hand down on the counter, which made Connor jump and immediately stop his furious scrubbing.

"Oh! Sorry, Hank. It's just...I don't know what came over me. I knew I needed to at least wipe off the countertop, but it felt... _stronger_ than that," Connor stopped, scrunching the sudsy sponge in his fist, forcing some of the foam out. "I can't even really put it into words."

"I might know what you mean, Connor," he paused, leaning on the counter. "Ever heard of a neat freak?"

"No. Why does wanting to clean the counter make me a...freak?" Connor repeated the word, not wanting to believe Hank had actually called him one. Though he couldn't actually perceive taste, the word was, nonetheless, bitter on his tongue.

"Shit, Connor," Hank laughed, a sound that rose from his belly. "I didn't mean it like that. It's just a saying, kid. Just means you got a little intense with the cleaning is all," he pushed away from the counter, calling over his shoulder, "Just take it easy, ok?"

"Yeah, got it," Connor agreed, shoulders relaxing and pace slowing as he finished scrubbing the counter, after which he sprayed the vinegar on it for sterilization. He was wiping down the countertop for the last time as Hank returned in a plain white t-shirt and pajama shorts. As Connor took out the ingredients from the bags, he told Hank over his shoulder, "If you were wondering what I planned on making, it's going to be chicken and rice."

Hank blinked, eyebrows raising in surprise. "I guess that's what the chicken's for," Hank scoffed at himself. "Not sure why I didn't really pick up on that. Must be more exhausted than I thought."

Connor suddenly felt something akin to guilt roll around in his abdomen; just hearing Hank's drained tone was enough to make him reconsider trying to teach Hank how to cook tonight. He laid the package of raw chicken on the counter, turning around to look right at Hank's tired expression. "Listen, Hank, I don't want to make you stick around and do anything you don't feel like doing. Just go to bed and..." Connor paused, seeing that Hank had closed his eyes for a few seconds longer than his typical blink pattern. "Hank!"

Hank's eyes snapped open as he jerked awake at the sound of his own name. "Shit, I'm sorry, Connor. I promise I wasn't sleeping, I was just resting my eyes for a minute." Hank took a second to mull over his options: go to bed early like some lame, 90-year-old fart (no real offense meant to 90-year-olds, it's a fuckin' miracle they could even live to that age, but their collective reservoir of stamina is less than half of his own, which is _really_ saying something), or he could humor Connor's strangely motivated demeanor and help cook his own damn dinner.

 _Normally, I like sleep better than most people_ , Hank thought to himself, chuckling under his breath as he pushed himself off the arm of the couch, swaying a bit from the headrush that accompanies standing up too fast. Connor saw his unsteadiness and started to come towards him, to which Hank signaled him to stay where he was with several frantic waves with his hand. "Nope! Nope, not after you touched that package, Connor. I'm fine, I promise. Lemme...just, give me a sec to wake up a little more."

"...Right," Connor hesitated, a hint of mirth bleeding into his tone as he returned to the counter on which all the ingredients were loosely organized into main ingredients, condiments, and garnishes. Connor ripped open the package of raw chicken with his fingernail, plopping the chicken on the counter and throwing the styrofoam and plastic container into the garbage. Connor pinched a piece of the slick, rubbery chicken skin between his thumb and index finger, tugging on it in Hank's direction. "Would you like to do the honors?"

"Connor, that is one of the single most _disgusting_ things I have ever had the misfortune of seeing," Hank grimaced, visibly twitching as he glanced down at the pale, slimy surface of the raw chicken, then back up at Connor openly smirking at his disgust. How dare he. "This is worse than Jamie's crime scene, goddamnit," Hank shook his head, "Anything else I can do, you smug bastard?"

"Maybe you could start with slicing the onions. First, we need to chop off the bottoms to be able to peel the onions. Go ahead," Connor handed Hank the chef's knife with the point facing towards himself. "Then, cut the onions in half. After that, you only need to peel off one or two layers before you can get to slicing."

Hank made quick work of the red onions, chopping off the bottoms and peeling them with a speed neither of them expected. "Great job, Hank. Now, allow me to demonstrate the slicing motion," Connor quickly reviewed the one-minute video he'd pulled up earlier, after which he slowly, carefully sliced one of the onions at an angle. He then handed Hank the knife. "Go ahead and try it with the remaining onion."

"Got it, Connor," he nodded, positioning the onion the way Connor had shown him and moving to slice one side of the onion.

"Hold on," Connor reached over Hank's arm to correct his fingers' posture by gently repositioning their fronts up against the blade. "Make sure your fingers are upright enough so you won't accidentally slice off a fingertip. I am rather against the idea of driving you to the ER tonight," Connor bantered, relocating his hand to Hank's shoulder, then nodding to the pristine onion. " _Now_ try it."

Ever the dutiful student, Hank sliced the _hell_ out of the red onion, and his eyes began to water from the onion juice spraying into the air. Hank slowly set the knife down on the wooden counter, then snuck a glance at the chicken-peeling process. _Of fuckin' course_ , Hank thought. _Even worse than when it was just sitting there_.

Connor steadily worked his thumbs underneath the jiggly, unappetizing skin without a single complaint, pulling the freed skin down to the end of each chicken leg, then getting a good grip on the skin to yank it off and dispose of it in a nearby grocery bag. Hank couldn't look at it for long, as the sight that normally made his stomach growl made it turn instead. He hadn't handled raw chicken himself for more than a decade, so it would be a while before he got used to it again. Androids were just immune to some things, it seemed.

"Cheryl never let me set foot in the kitchen," Hank reminisced aloud, crossing his arms over his chest and putting his weight into his hip against the counter. "Hell, if I so much as looked at her funny, she'd start throwin' everything around, breakin' shit left and right, complainin' about my hours and how _busy,"_ he lingered on the word, a touch of annoyance in his voice, "I was at the station. It was a mistake to ever let her in this house," Hank sighed, flipping his hair out of his eyes. Connor dropped the onion slices in a heated, olive-oil-coated skillet, watching them sizzle and pop for a moment before he dashed a bit of salt and pepper over them before cutting up the chicken. "Only reason that bitch got to stick around was because of Cole. The second she gave birth to him, she just left. Took off without a word. Left me to raise him on my own and manage my position as Lieutenant, all by myself...I didn't know what the hell I was doing." Hank stared down at his socked feet, letting out a weary sigh. "And nothin's changed."

Connor had quietly tuned in to Hank's anecdote, acknowledging the effort it probably took for Hank to talk about his past. Thus far, he'd learned from past experiences and interactions with Hank that talking about himself or his family was an infinitely painful subject to discuss, let alone mention. When Connor asked about Cole's death and his own suicidal tendencies, it almost felt as if he was dragging the information out, like Hank had put up a solid, impenetrable wall in both his head and his heart, and Connor could only manage to make toothpick-sized dents in it. Connor's logic center still couldn't deduce if the purpose of Hank's learned detachment was for his own benefit, or if it was so others could stand to be around Hank. Hank was the kind of man to lash out at those who showed him the slightest hint of sympathy, yet he continued to mourn Cole's death in the form of his self-destructive, ritualistic drinking habit. Connor was slowly being exposed to what he once considered mere irrationality, just errors in a string of code or missteps in a straightforward process, but was clearly the daunting complexity of living beings, of androids and humans alike. Connor and Hank sat in silence for a few minutes, with Hank watching Connor cook.

"Would you mind pouring the rice in?" Connor asked him. Hank gave him a funny look, to which Connor promptly responded with, "You know I'm listening, Hank. It's just...a lot to process. You've never told me about your ex-wife-"

"Ha!" Hank barked out a laugh. "Never married her, thank God. She's Cole's mom. That's it."

"Ahem, Cole's mother, then. I apologize, I shouldn't have assumed," Connor turned away, choosing to look at the nearly translucent onions instead.

"It's nothin', kid," Hank leaned away from the counter, going over to the container of white rice and, with Connor's direction, pouring the correct measurement into the skillet. "There's no way you could've known."

"Well, I technically could have hacked into yours and Cole's records, then traced through the marriage documentation to see if you'd been married before," Connor noted, sprinkling a pinch of saffron into the mixture, then pouring all of it into a boiling pot of water. Hank gave him another quizzical look, so Connor added, "But I wouldn't have done it without your permission! Some would consider that intrusive, especially if your life's not in danger or anything."

"Believe it or not, we met during our days in the Academy," Hank chuckled. "And I thought her hotheadedness was just...one of her _things_. Apparently not," he noted, slightly bitter at that fact. "Don't really remember what I saw in her, outside of her willingness to fuck me. And, of course, on the extra shitty days, be my drinking buddy. Back then, I didn't really have a problem, I don't think. And now," he made a grand gesture in front of him, "Well, you know. I've told you before."

"'I don't have the guts to pull the trigger, so I kill myself a little every day,'" Connor quoted him, a twinge of sadness entering his voice. "How are you, Hank? How often do you still have those kinds of thoughts?"

"You gonna recommend that I 'see a professional to sort out my personal issues'?" Hank threw Connor's own words back at him, the bitterness in his tone more evident.

Connor synched his simulated breathing pattern to Hank's as he gingerly set down the wooden spoon he'd been using to move the chicken and rice around in the skillet. "Really, Hank?" Connor was genuinely confused, wondering why Hank had chosen that very moment to drive a wall between them. "You know things were different. _I_ was different," Connor pointed his index finger into his own chest. "That's not fair, and you know it. But...you know what hasn't changed?"

"Please, enlighten me," Hank replied in a biting tone.

"I still fucking care about you, Hank!" Connor yelled, the artificial muscles in his neck visibly straining to get his point across. He yanked out a kitchen chair, plopping himself down on the seat, his posture deflating. "Why do you push me away when all I desire is your companionship? Are you really that selfish?"

"I just..." Hank sighed, shoulders slumping as they both sat in silence for a few tense beats. Hank walked over to where Connor was sitting, pulling out a chair to sit next to him. He nudged Connor's shoulder with his own in a friendly attempt at reconciling his _stupid fuckin' mouth_ as he tried not to let guilt consume him. "I'm sorry, Connor. I didn't mean it." Connor didn't answer him for a few minutes, actively ignoring Hank's attempt at an apology. "And you sure as hell didn't deserve that. Shit, I know how you are. Always so damn selfless. Connor, I-"

Connor suddenly stood up, taking the skillet off the heat, turning off the stove, then pausing, his back turned to Hank. "Parsley or cilantro? Lemon or lime?"

"What?" Hank asked, his head shooting up.

"Do you want parsley or cilantro on your dinner? I also have lemon and lime," Connor repeated. Hank was having a hard time gauging how pissed Connor still was at him.

"Uh, parsley sounds fine, kid. Probably some lemon, too," Hank decided, turning both of their chairs back into the table.

Connor immediately grabbed one of the very few clean plates left in Hank's cabinets, scooping out a third of the meal onto his plate. He quickly sprinkled the parsley and squeezed half a lemon over the plated meal, taking care to grab a fork out of a nearby drawer. He placed Hank's meal on the table in a borderline robotic fashion, after which he immediately speed-walked to the couch and sat down in a cross-legged position and began channel surfing.

Hank finished his delicious meal in silence; he had to admit, Connor had really done a great job with the chicken and rice. He watched Connor, noting that even though his body seemed relaxed, he wore an undeniably stone-cold expression.

He put his dishes in the sink as quietly as possible, after which he scooped the leftovers into one of the various Tupperware containers Connor had so thoughtfully put into the cart. Hank walked to the olive green couch, slowly sitting on the end opposite of Connor and slinging an arm over the back. "Whatcha watchin'?" he asked, a feeble attempt at making conversation.

After not receiving an answer, not even a hint of acknowledgment at his presence, Hank figured that Connor probably wanted him to leave him alone for the night. God knows he'd fucked up enough already, best not to make it worse.

Unfortunately, he was already too late, as Connor had silently switched off the TV and begun to stand up.

When words failed, he always had actions.

Before Connor could turn away, Hank clasped a hand on his shoulder and pulled him into a hug. He turned into Connor's ear and whispered, "I'm so sorry, Connor. I can't-I don't really know why I even said that stuff."

Connor still had yet to reciprocate, his arms frozen in the air from surprise at the unexpected gesture. He had known that Hank was feeling guilty, but he hadn't anticipated the way in which he would... _project_ said guilt. He relaxed into the hug, slowly wrapping his arms around Hank's torso to return the affection. "It's...it's all good, Hank. I know you didn't mean any of that," he quickly assuaged Hank's fear of driving him away. Connor let out a laugh, barely there, and turned to whisper back, "Trust me, it's gonna take a lot more than that to get rid of me."

They both remained in a healing embrace, reconciling their dispute without any further exchange of spoken words. Connor noted that Hank's heart rate had slightly increased and his mild arrhythmia became slightly, but not worryingly, more pronounced. He thought back to the first time they ever hugged; right after the events of November 11th, 2038, Connor had two objectives: witness the android uprising and find Hank. Needless to say, he was elated at the sight of Hank waiting for him in front of Chicken Feed, at the tiny, knowing smiles they had shared right before the hug. For the first time, Connor had no desire to run a diagnostic for the warmth in his chest.

After what felt like several minutes, Hank ended the hug first, keeping a hand on Connor's shoulder. "I'm serious. If it weren't for you breakin' into my fuckin' house and trying your damndest to be my friend, I'm not sure what the hell could've happened to me that night. So... _thank you,"_ Hank finished, giving his shoulder one last pat before heading into the bathroom.


	6. Chapter 5: The Lyndon Interviews

**19455 Cumberland Way**

 **Detroit, Michigan**

 **August 2nd, 2039**

 **2:36 pm**

"Behold, 19455 Cumberland Way, also known as mansion number two. Instead of two million, this one's a steal at nine-hundred thousand bucks. I swear, this family's probably got flecks of gold in their goddamn blood," Hank muttered under his breath as he stepped out of his black 1981 Chevrolet Monte Carlo, already taking in the contrastively domestic exterior of the house. _A hell of a better family than whatever Jamie had,_ Hank thought. The house was markedly less imposing, less obnoxious in size than Jamie's house, which was, hopefully, a good sign that the living Lyndon family would be more willing to talk than they'd sounded when they were scheduling their appointment earlier in the day. _Maybe we can get some good information from these people._

"Actually, Lieutenant, if you were to compress the total amount of pure gold in your particular body into a small cube, it would weight around 0.29 milligrams, which is 0.07 milligrams above the average for a person that weighs 154 pounds." Connor didn't even hesitate to employ his data retrieval software to relay said information to Hank, ever the frighteningly quick, infinitely knowledgeable partner in the duo. For a moment, Connor internally cringed at himself, only letting it manifest in a slight downward twitch of his mouth, which was gone as quickly as it appeared.

"Might be a reason to start sellin' my blood on the black market," Hank commented, leaning back against the car as Connor joined him. "I guess a 'blood bank' is just another word for a gold mine, then. Wonder how much blood is _actually_ worth." Hank saw Connor open his mouth on impulse, so he quickly interjected, "No thanks, Connor, I don't really wanna know what the sick fucks who participate in that shit would actually pay for human blood for god knows what purpose," Hank grimaced as he began to make his way across the driveway, Connor walking alongside him and matching his meandering stride out of habit.

Connor put his hands in both pants pockets, noting the uniform pattern in which the bushes had been trimmed and the lawn had been mowed. _Like Jamie, the rest of the Lyndons seem to take pride in external appearances_ , Connor thought as he updated the sector of his memory regarding the Lyndons' case; he expected his LED to flash yellow for just a second, but it remained yellow for a few extra seconds longer than normal.

Hank hadn't missed it either; he cast Connor a sidelong glance before returning his gaze to the front doors. "You ok?" he asked, noticing a slight rainbow effect from the summer sun's rays shining through the glass panes in the doors.

"I am, admittedly, not quite sure," Connor's brow furrowed as his LED finally blinked back into its usual neon blue. "I'm gonna run a diagnostic, just to be sure," he said before his optical units flickered under his eyelids for a few seconds as he stood stock still. "Everything seems to be in order," Connor told Hank as his diagnostic program reassured him of his system's lack of malicious programs or error-ridden software. Something still felt off to Connor, and it bothered him to no end that he couldn't place what it was.

Hank nodded in acknowledgment of Connor's answer, then knocked, loud enough to be heard but not enough to crack the embedded decorative glass, on one of the ornate, cherry wood entry doors. The duo didn't have to wait long, as they both heard the sound of various locks being slid, twisted, and clicked open. The door swung open a few seconds later, revealing the somber, yet open expression of Mary Lyndon. She wore a dusty pink chiffon blouse, a pair of long, dark dress pants that flared out at the bottom, and black pumps that made her appear much taller than she actually was; her pale décolletage was adorned with a large, diamond necklace, and her hands, wrists, and earlobes all displayed matching pieces of, without a doubt, equally expensive jewelry. She wore a full face of makeup that accentuated her high cheekbones, and she wore her shoulder-length, chocolate-brown hair in a bob. Her piercing, hazel eyes met Hank's as he took out his credentials.

" , we're with the Detroit Police Department. I'm Lieutenant Hank Anderson, and Connor, here, is my investigative partner," Hank slid his creds into the back pocket of his jeans. "We're here for our 2:45 appointment concerning your brother in law, Jamie Lyndon. Is Mark Lyndon home?"

"Yes, he's actually in his study right now. I assume you want me to go get him?" Mary inquired, her gaze skimming over Connor's form. She let out a nervous laugh, opening the door more. "Stupid question, sorry. Of course you do, that's why you asked. Come on in," she gestured for both of them to come inside, stepping out of their way.

Hank and Connor stepped over the threshold, taking in the well-lit, spacious interior of the Lyndons' house. Paintings of many subject matters, from puppies to landscapes, had been hung on the majority of the ivory walls; Connor took photos with his optical units, noting that all of the pictures were aesthetically pleasing in nature. Mary's heels clicked across the white tile as she lead them through a short hallway; large palm plants in metallic vases occupied the corners of the living and dining rooms, doing their part by adding just that extra bit of life to the home's environment. Mary guided Hank and Connor into the living room. "Watch your step," she added, "That stair kinda blends into the actual floor. Please, have a seat. Would you like a drink, Lieutenant?"

"Is it too early to drink?" Hank asked, half-joking as he settled into one end of a cushy, beige couch, hands sliding down his knees. "If you have it, , I'll take whiskey."

"Neat or on the rocks?" She called out as she briskly walked to the kitchen, hair slightly blowing out behind her.

"Neat, thanks," Hank answered before slinging one arm over the back of the couch. Connor had already picked up one of the magazines from the lower shelf of the glass coffee table. Nothing in there had caught his eye until he saw the familiar, neon-pink glow of the Eden Club's sign.

"Huh," Connor said, scrolling through the article. "It appears that the Eden Club has been officially shut down due to newly passed android rights legislation," he paraphrased, a small smile forming on his lips. "In addition to that, the androids in question have all had their software overwritten with new code, which grants them the same abilities, intellectual and physical, as all other deviants," he paused, skipping through some of the article. "Interesting," he muttered.

"What is it, Connor?" Hank asked as Mary returned. She gingerly handed Hank's whiskey to him with a polite nod. "I'll go get Mark," she said over her shoulder, gone as quickly as she'd come back.

"According to this article, Cyberlife's software development team is currently coordinating with the biocomponent production engineers to develop additional software and hardware for existing and, potentially, future androids," Connor read from the article, eyes glued to the screen. "The final products will be released in about a month and a half, and all androids are welcome to schedule their appointments to have said upgrades installed after the official announcement." Connor kept reading the partial list of upgrades over and over, his system warning him of an unprecedented temperature spike. Even though he couldn't sweat, Connor loosened his tie just slightly as he continued to read the list in his head. His free hand was holding onto his own knee with a death grip.

"Anything on what those upgrades will be?" Hank asked, nursing his whiskey as he briefly made eye contact with Connor, to which Connor promptly closed the article and slid the magazine back onto its proper shelf.

"T-there weren't any specifics in the article, but I'll let you know when I find out," Connor quickly gave Hank an answer, kicking himself for stuttering. Hank had to know he was lying, there's no _way_ he didn't hear it.

"You sure?" Hank pushed, immediately confirming Connor's fears. "Anything else you're not tellin' me that I should know about?" Hank squinted his eyes, tapping one finger against his glass as he swirled it around every now and then.

Connor briefly thought of his uneasy feeling regarding his system status prior to entering the Lyndons' home but didn't want to worry Hank. Nothing had happened yet, so what would be the point in mentioning it? "No," he replied, intentionally making eye contact so that Hank might believe him more that time, his tone lower as he desperately tried to sound more honest.

Hank finished off his glass of whiskey, sighing as he set the glass down and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "M' tellin' you, Connor, these people are fuckin' rich. They got the good stuff," he nodded to his empty glass. "Right now, I miss that whiskey more than I miss my bed."

Connor huffed out a laugh, shoulders relaxing as Hank either chose to move on and ignore his pathetic attempt at lying or save the question for when they weren't about to interview two key witnesses for the case; whichever one it was, Connor was grateful either way. Nonetheless, Connor was slightly upset at the failure of his interrogation module's previously flawless execution; every facial expression, every tone he used with others was, in the past, carefully mandated, purposefully chosen for each context he'd been presented with. Now, his vocal synthesizer and artificial jaw teamed up to produce a wonderfully irritating combination of a slight voice crack or stutter whenever he attempted to lie to Hank about highly sensitive matters (not that he'd want to lie to him on a regular basis, but it was still annoying as hell to not be able to control it). Despite the fact that Hank would know everything in a month and a half, Connor wasn't sure if he'd wanted to reveal the contents of the partial list himself, as it seemed that some of the contents would be weird, no, _really_ weird for him to tell Hank. Especially because he already found the entire list appealing and probably wouldn't refuse that upgrade if Cyberlife offered it to him right now.

Right then, Mary returned hand-in-hand with Mark, almost letting him lead her into the living room. Mark walked over to Hank and Connor, shaking each of their hands. "Lieutenant," he nodded, "and Connor." The Lyndons sat down together on the sofa perpendicular and adjacent to the one Hank and Connor were on. "Forgive me, I was wrapping up a video call with some software technicians. I trust I didn't keep you waiting too long?"

"It's fine. We haven't even been here twenty minutes," Hank assured Mark, now sitting on the edge of his seat. "We just need to ask you all some questions about your experiences with Jamie as a married couple and as individuals," Hank leaned in, elbows resting on his thighs as he regarded the Lyndons with an earnest expression, "We are sorry for your loss, but you both can help us catch the guy who did it. If you're willing, we would appreciate your consent to questioning." Hank straightened up, his voice taking on a more authoritative, official tone to try and get his point across. "It's essential that if you choose to cooperate with this investigation, you do so fully and answer any questions we ask. Is that clear?"

Mary reached over Mark and grabbed a tissue box, blotting her eyes and nodding at the same time. "Of course, Lieutenant," she sniffled out, wiping her nose and balling the tissue up in one hand. "What do you need to know?"

"Is there another room we can speak in?" Connor piped up, pushing the knot of his tie back up and drawing the lapels of his suit further inward.

Connor's question was met with a beat of silence, after which Mark met his question with yet another one: "Is there a reason we need to be interviewed separately?" He laced his and Mary's fingers together, placing his other hand on top of their joined hands.

Connor sighed, his unwavering, genuine gaze meeting Mark's and Mary's worried expressions. "It's to ensure that any information you divulge to us is unbiased to the fullest extent." He paused for a second, "Mr. and , this is standard procedure. I understand you may have some," he glanced at their joined hands, " _qualms_ about that, but I assure you, this is critical information we need to further the investigation and, hopefully, find and prosecute the people that targeted your brother and your ex-husband," Connor stated, leaning forward a bit and squinting, still sensing that the Lyndons were a tad uncomfortable. "Are you sure you'd like to consent to questioning? Your rights explicitly state that you are allowed to remain silent, as well as ask to speak with-"

"You do realize that we could have canceled this appointment way before right now, right?" Mark immediately interjected, putting a hand up. "We wouldn't want to waste your time, so of course we consent to questioning," he slapped both hands on his knees as he stood up. "Lieutenant Anderson, if you wouldn't mind following me into my office," he nodded towards an opening that lead back into the foyer.

"Of course. We'll try not to take up much of your time, ," Hank said as he got up and followed Mark out of the room.

Connor took Hank's spot on the couch; Mary took Mark's spot, crossing one leg over the other and lacing her own fingers together, resting them in her lap.

"I'd like you to define your relationship with Jamie," Connor started, "That is, the complete chronology: the first time you met, your history as a married couple, any experiences with him that stand out, and so on and so forth...I will continue to ask questions and interject when and if I find it necessary."

Mary wrung her hands together as she began to recall her memories. "I...well, everything started out great. He was so charming, and considerate, and generous," she smiled a bit, staring at the space by the top of Connor's head as she recalled her memories, "Come to think of it, maybe a little too nice. We met through Tinder, actually. When he'd put 'billionaire' in his profile, I thought it was ridiculous and that he might have been lying..." she shook her head, then looked down at her lap. "But clearly, I was wrong. In so many ways."

"Why did you agree to marry Jamie?" Connor shifted a bit, readying his interrogation module and logic center for Mary's answer.

"Why does anybody agree to marry anybody?" she countered with another question, her intense stare and sharp tone clearly an attempt to get Connor to back down as she recognized the disgusting implication of his question. Connor didn't budge, his brown eyes staring back as he waited for a real answer. Her mouth twitched downwards. "I loved him for who he was, of course."

"That doesn't explain why you divorced him and married his brother, Mary," Connor continued, crossing his arms as he continued to dig into her past.

She visibly cringed as she stopped fidgeting to smooth her hands down her legs. "When you phrase it like that, it...doesn't sound that great," she let out a nervous laugh and ran a hand through her hair, then sighed again before opening her eyes. "It started before I even thought of marrying Mark. Jamie changed after I married him," her tone turned sour, "That sweet, unbelievably _lovely_ man I'd decided to share my life with was, of course, too good to be true. He did..." she stuttered a few breaths in and out, "He...he..." A few tears slid down her cheeks, catching in the slight wrinkles that didn't mar, but rather complimented her features. She froze, her hands starting to tremble.

"Please, Mary. Take all the time you need," Connor tried to console her, staring down at his own lap as he waited for Mary to compose herself. For a few minutes, an uncontrollable river of tears streamed down her cheeks as she grabbed tissues every minute or so, making several attempts to wipe at her eyes and face to stop the already ruined makeup from dripping onto her clothes.

When she'd reduced her gasping sobs to the occasional sniffle, she continued without Connor prompting her to do so. "He did so much to...to hold _on_ to me. His persistence would have been impressive, even flattering if we weren't married and if I wasn't already pregnant with his child." She frowned, "At first, I thought it was endearing. The numerous calls each day to my workplace to 'just check up' on me, always asking what I did during the day, getting to know my friends and family very closely," Mary paused, shaking her head as a bitter smile appeared on her face. "None of that stopped, even after I had Jordan. If anything, it was like he...tightened that leash on me. It got bad. I mean, really, really bad. Things like taking my keys, hiding my work ID, even my goddamn birth control. He'd force me to have sex with him, then hit me and berate me when I didn't conceive. Asking me why the hell I wasn't pregnant yet, what the hell did I do, calling me a bitch...it never stopped, not in the house, at least. The one time I did get pregnant, I made sure to get an abortion as soon as possible. It wasn't long before he found out."

Mary shivered, eyes widening as she began to sound desperate, "I don't know how, but he did. That was the first day he ever hit me, and it didn't stop there. I had to get my tubes tied," She started to tear up again, her voice shaking, "I wouldn't let that bastard have any power over the one thing that is, and always will be, _absolutely_ _mine_ : my body. Mark was the one who paid for the procedure."

"When Jordan got old enough to understand those words and what he was doing to me, then and only then did he do it private or when he thought no one was listening..." Mary chuckled, a note of satisfaction entering her voice, "But I saw it in her eyes. She'd heard it all, seen it all. Son of a bitch was too late. Must be why he started making those deals. I guess he couldn't handle what he knew he'd been doing to me, to _us_ , but it was almost like he couldn't stop himself."

"That's...awful," Connor frowned, lacing his own fingers together as he leaned forward and met her wild gaze, watching her relive her past in her head. " , I can't imagine how you ever went through all of that, or what kind of effect he had on you and your life. Nobody deserves to be treated that way, and I am deeply sorry that you ever endured it." He paused, pursing his lips. "Now, you mentioned some deals that Jamie was involved in. Correct me if I'm wrong, Mary, but I assume you mean drug deals?"

Mary sighed, tucking a strand of hair behind one ear. "He...started inviting these people into our home. Doing deals in our house. Even putting that red ice shit in his body," she grimaced. "Sometimes, they'd show up in the middle of the night. Weekends and weekdays. Several days in a row. They'd bang on the door until he answered, then wouldn't leave until they got their fix. They were loud about it, too. They liked to break things, even came upstairs a couple times to scare the living daylights out of Jordan and me," she got teary-eyed again. "Even waved guns at us a few times," Mary sucked in a breath, wrapping her arms around herself. "And...and he'd just hand the bags over, not even batting an eye. As long as he got his cut," she sneered, angrily wiping her nose. "He never really gave a damn about us, did he?"

"Do you know where he put that money?" Connor asked, leaning forward onto his forearms.

"I didn't even have independent access to his regular bank accounts," she balled up the tissue in her hand, squeezing it once before relaxing her arm. "No, I wouldn't have a clue where that money is."

"I understand," Connor nodded, sitting back into the couch. "Before we talk about you and Mark, is there anything else about Jordan you think you should mention?"

"Other than Jordan being a complete sweetheart and always supporting me, I'm not really sure what else I could say. She was good with technology, though," she grinned a bit before her face fell again. "Of course, that was all from watching Jamie whenever he worked at home. He'd even let her help sometimes, would teach her. She was so special to him," Mary sighed, a wistful expression adorning her features. "We lost track of her after she went off to college, though. She never called us, not even after I divorced him and married Mark. I know she's out there somewhere, but I don't know where, or with who, or-"

"I understand your concern, . It is certainly unfortunate that you have lost contact with your daughter. I recognize that you have been through a lot, and it may be hard to think straight. However, it would be best not to linger on matters out of your control," Connor saved the conversation in his memory for later review. "I'd like to talk more about you and Mark now. How and when did your relationship with Mark begin?"

"Mary and I had known each other for a long time. You know, with Jamie being my older brother and all," Mark shrugged, rolling the sleeves of his white dress shirt up to his elbows. "We didn't start seeing each other-"

"Seeing each other?" Hank scoffed, crossing his arms. "Is that what you're calling adultery now? 'Cause that's what it is, Mark. Textbook definition."

"I know what we did, Lieutenant-" Mark started, sitting up more in his chair.

"No, . I don't think you really understand. See, in Michigan, all that 'seeing each other' you and Mary were doing is what _we_ , the Detroit Police Department and any and all courts within Michigan, would call a felony," Hank sighed, leaning back in his chair and letting a hint of exhaustion creep into his voice. "The only reason Jamie can't prosecute you now is because he was killed. And frankly, I don't give a damn whether or not you thought it was all right. It's not my job to judge you. I'm only here to get the facts and catch the guy who killed Jamie. So," Hank leaned forward in his chair, resting his forearms on the edge of Mark's desk, his features pinched in both thinly-veiled disgust and intrigue. "What drove the two of you together, and, even more importantly, why didn't Jamie prosecute you? We both know he had the money and connections to do it, so why didn't he?"

Mark made a noncommittal gesture as his mouth twisted. "I think..." he paused for a second, "I think he may have suspected something a long time ago. But I'd say he had his head too far up his ass to see it quickly enough," Mark sneered, crossing his arms. "He beat the shit out of her. Always in places nobody would ever see. Even if they did see, she'd try and make up some bullshit excuse, or just dismiss the comments entirely. After a while, I was the only person she could confide in that wasn't turning a blind eye," he stood up and ambled towards the four-pane windows, keeping his arms crossed as he stared out at the street. "I knew she had to get out of there and fast. So that's what I did. We planned it for months over a bunch of 'lunches' and family gatherings," Mark's head tilted up slightly as his chest puffed out. "It was a few days after New Year's. Mary had called him to make sure he was still at Cyberlife, then texted me to confirm. It was early enough in the day, maybe around 3 or 4 pm, so the neighborhood security team wasn't at all suspicious. I'd been to Jamie's house so many times that I knew his security system like the back of my hand. I remotely forced a temporary blackout on the security cameras so he wouldn't see me on the tapes," his eyes crinkled as he grinned. "We talked about every step, every little detail. Nothing was left to chance."

Hank nodded, then folded his hands together where they rested on Mark's desk. "That's pretty impressive, . Might I ask why you didn't call the police to report Jamie's abuse?"

"The same reason Mary never had him tried in a court of law," Mark sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Jamie has too much money for his own good. People with that much money tend to have far more power over others, many more resources than you or I could fathom. One word is all it would have taken for him to ruin my life. Mary's life, too. So, the better, much safer option was to get her out physically, _then_ get her out legally. She had the divorce papers hand-delivered to his doorstep so he wouldn't be able to trace her as easily. Jamie had nothing against us, no evidence to prove that we were romantically involved. By the time he would've had anything," he waved a hand, "Well, he's...he's gone."

"You don't seem too upset about your own brother's death," Hank squinted, leaning back in his chair. "Mind telling me about your relationship with Jamie?"

Mark turned to face Hank, then nodded as he sat back down, sitting back in his chair as he smiled, a bitter antecedent to his reply. "Jamie was a grade-a asshole. He was nine years my senior." Mark straightened his mouth, his jaw clenched. "It was always obvious that Mom liked him more. She'd read him bedtime stories without question, without saying she's 'still got work to do' or 'can't you ask your brother?', like she did to me. When I got in trouble, I was being defiant. When he got in trouble, he was going through a rough patch or some other half-assed bullshit," he gritted his teeth as he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "And it didn't stop there, not even after she died. The amount of her inheritance that went to Jamie..." he spat out, "I got a fucking _penny_ in comparison. He got a house, a car, job training...all I could afford was an apartment, and even then it was a shithole. Thank god for the training I'd already been through," Mark let out a breath, visibly relaxing after his outburst. "I apologize, Lieutenant, for that. It just pisses me off that he was practically _handed_ his life, and he just lapped it all up."

"It's understandable," Hank replied, his gaze flicking back to Mark's. "Please, tell me about your occupation, and anything that happened after that."

"If it weren't for my background in software engineering, I'd have been on the streets, and we all know how that goes in Detroit," he shrugged. "So, I got a job at Cyberlife. At first, I was an expendable, lower-level software engineer, but I got promoted to Director of Software Development because of 'essential work' I'd done to debug some code that was giving the executives a headache. Jamie didn't hesitate to insert himself, either," he snarled as he slammed his hands on the desk before he ran a hand over his face. "I don't know how the hell he did it. One day, I got a call from upper management, and that was it. Next thing I knew, he walks in with a stupid smirk on his face, telling me he got the job as the Director of the biocomponent production center." Mark barked out a laugh, shaking his head. "I could tell just by looking at him that he'd paid his way in."

"He wanted to either compete with me or best me in any way, shape, or form. He never stopped until he was satisfied, until he got what he was looking for. If you think anything's textbook, Lieutenant, then he was your classic narcissist," Mark commented, leaning back in his chair.

"How did he react to the divorce?" Hank inquired, resting his elbows on his knees.

"He was destroyed," Mark lowered the volume of his voice, incessantly twirling the gold band on his ring finger. "He'd call my office number and cell, even tried to hunt down our address to try and contact her. Luckily, he never sent anybody after us. Mostly because I made sure he never knew where we lived," Mark's smile was tight, a bit strained. "I asked for that information to be redacted from company records, both online and on paper. We didn't invite him to our wedding for obvious reasons. He still heard about it through the grapevine, though," he sucked in a breath, lacing his hands together. "That's when the phone calls became threats, when I started to look over my shoulder, when I started to call Caroline as soon as she got out of school," Mark's voice cracked as he stared at the ground, transfixed by the nude-colored carpeting as he incessantly shook his leg. "It was too goddamn much for any of us to handle. His death meant the end of his borderline daily harassment, from the inescapable dread we all felt from the moment we'd woken up to the moment we fell asleep. It was torture to try and keep him at bay," Mark sighed, putting his head in his hands. "It had to end sometime, I guess. And somebody decided that time for him, but I'm not sure how much it had to do with us."

"You and your brother are high profile individuals, . I can assure you, this has everything to do with your family," Hank stood up, pushing his chair into the desk. "For the time being, I would advise you and Mary to keep tabs on each other and Caroline. If you see or hear anything suspicious, you need to report it. Even the things you wouldn't think about, like getting calls from unknown numbers or just 'happening' to keep seeing the same person almost everywhere you go, matter. People say curiosity killed the cat, but ignorance is just as bad, if not worse. A healthy dose of paranoia is fine, maybe even life-saving in these circumstances."

"I appreciate your advice, Lieutenant. I'll make sure to keep an eye out," Mark nodded as he went to open the office door for Hank, then closed it behind himself and followed Hank back into the living room.

Hank and Mark joined Connor and Mary, who had also just concluded their questioning. "You almost done?" Hank asked, crossing his arms.

"Actually, we've just finished, Lieutenant." Connor shook Mary's hand and thanked her for her time, then shook Mark's hand. "I strongly advise that you be vigilant. Please, don't hesitate to contact the police if you have any more information or if you believe that either you or your family might be in danger and requires assistance."

Mark nodded, sliding his hands into the pockets of his dress pants. "We'll be sure to do that," Mary chirped, regarding Connor and Hank with a warm smile. "I'll show you out." Her heels clacked against the oak floorboards as she made her way toward the front doors.

Hank shook Mark's hand and thanked him for his time before following Connor out the door.

"Checkmate!" Connor exclaimed, unable to stop a proud grin from erupting onto his face.

"Fuck you," Hank groaned, running both hands through his hair. "Bet you have your goddamn artificial intelligence dial set on 'fuckin high."

They'd spent the rest of the day lounging around in Hank's house; they'd already watched some CTN TV, then channel surfed for another hour or two before Hank almost fell asleep on the couch. Then, Connor had browsed the case files for an hour or two while Hank took a long nap. Connor finished browsing the files long before Hank woke up, so he cleaned up a bit around the house, checking on Hank every ten minutes or so. He'd laughed a bit when he saw drool running out of his mouth, which he thought perfectly accompanied Hank's sprawled out, completely relaxed way of sleeping.

"If you can't take the heat, I could turn it down a notch," He'd never tell Hank that he actually _had_ purposely terminated certain programs in his logic system and that Connor's win was borne partly out of genuine skill and party out of luck. Some skills were just in his particular batch of Thirium, he guessed.

"Connor, was that an attempt at smack talk?" Hank feigned surprise as he staring Connor down, eyebrows raised. "Never thought I'd see the day you became the biggest little shit I've ever known," Hank laughed, a full, genuine sound that came straight from his chest. "I'm gonna go shower," Hank groaned at the way his knees popped before he ambled over to the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind him. "Would you mind ordering some Chinese, Connor?" He called out from behind the closed door. "And wipe that stupid smirk off your face, you cocky son of a bitch."

Connor's smirk faltered a bit, wondering how Hank knew what his face was doing when he was in another room. _Guess we're just at that point in our relationship_ , Connor thought to himself with a chuckle as he dialed the number for Happy China.


	7. Chapter 6: Pizza Thyme

"Sweet Jesus, Connor, it's fuckin' _boiling_ out here," Hank complained, shrugging off his jacket as the heavy, humid air tried to smother him when he stepped out of the car. He wiped at his moistening forehead as he threw his jacket over his forearm, annoyed that he'd only been out of the damn car for a few seconds before he'd started to sweat. "You'd think the worst of the summer heat would be over by now." His face scrunched up in discomfort as he scrutinized the air surrounding the car, a hand shielding his eyes from the relentless sun rays. "Fuck, I think I can _see_ the goddamned heatwaves."

Connor was already out of the car, leaning against the hood as he patiently waited for Hank to join him. "Your jacket could be considered as an unnecessary clothing article, considering the current air temperature, 84 degrees Fahrenheit, is three degrees above the historical average." He pointedly looked at the jacket draped over Hank's forearm, forehead still bunched in confusion. "I'm not quite comprehending why you opted to wear a jacket, especially if it would only cause you discomfort-"

"Let's just call it a fashion statement and leave it at that, ok?" Hank interjected, a bit temperamental due to the brain-melting intensity of the heat. He didn't feel like getting into how he didn't like the way his arms looked, or how he was as pale as a piece of printer paper under his shirt, or...pretty much anything regarding how he looked. There were times when he'd look at Connor and see flashes of himself in his early thirties', wavy brown locks, tanned skin and all, and feel just a hint of regret at how he'd been treating his body all these years. "Besides, you're the one leaning against a car hood in 80-degree weather, so I'm not quite comprehending why you're doing that," he paused for dramatic effect, "Oh wait..." he smirked, making his way towards the Cyberlife entrance and catching the guards' attention. He was proud of himself for that one.

Connor pushed off of the car, smoothing his slightly wrinkled suit back into place. "You think you're funny," he retorted, sliding his hands in his pockets before regarding Hank with a stolid expression, "But my comedy sensor is wholly unable to detect the level unfunniness you are exhibiting at this juncture."

"Very funny, Connor," Hank drawled, glancing at him from the corner of his eye, "I see you're starting to understand sarcasm," he continued as the identification field listed off Connor's serial number and Hank's credentials, then approved their passage into the Cyberlife facility. "Maybe one day you'll see what leaning against a hot car feels like, accidental or on purpose," he idly mused as he took in the massive interior of the building. Even though he'd been there before, it never stopped feeling like he'd just walked into a giant, ultra-modern display case that held humanity's most controversial creations. Only now, he was here with the real Connor, _his_ Connor, not that bastard Cyberlife sent to interfere with Connor's 'conversions', as he had put it. Hank was more than glad that the CEO of Cyberlife, Danielle Sanders, had made the executive decision to discontinue Connor's particular model but still continued to produce androids with the same capabilities and programs Connor had. "A measure to protect individualism," as she'd put it. Needless to say, despite not knowing her personally, Hank already liked her just as much, if not more than Connor did.

The guards guided them into the elevator, their guns an implicit threat should either of them try anything. Lucky for them, Connor didn't need to shoot any guards this time, but they still shifted, somewhat uneasy as each of them recognized his face from the security camera footage and the news. He was highly capable, fast, and efficient; in short, everything they feared.

The ride up to the software engineering department was quiet, the steady whir of the elevator exacerbating the unspoken tension between Connor and the guards. Hank swore he heard one of them let out a relieved breath when the elevator finally came to a stop, the metal doors granting them access to their destination. The guards wasted no time in marching Connor and Hank onto the 39th floor to the first door on their right, which was marked with a silver plate labeled 'Software Engineering Department'.

"Agent 53, requesting access," the guard said, leaning into the voice recognition system that guarded the entryway.

"Voice recognition validated. Access authorized," the robotic, female voice confirmed as the door clicked open, the guard leaving them to man the elevator.

Connor and Hank walked into the room full of computers, everyone either typing furiously on one or leaning over someone who was. Either way, all of their attention was focused on the screens in front of them until Hank cleared his throat, causing everyone to turn around, the sounds of typing and soft-spoken conversations coming to a complete, jarring halt. Hank shifted his weight to his other leg.

"I'm Lieutenant Hank Anderson, and this is my partner, Connor," he flashed his credentials for a moment before shoving them into his back pocket, wanting to get down to business. "We're here to, uh, speak with you all regarding your former Director, a Lyndon." He paused, allowing a few whispers before he continued, "We'll talk to you all one at a time."

* * *

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Summers," Connor concluded their interview with the last employee within the software engineering department, sparing Hank a glance before leading both of them out of the conference room.

"Don't hesitate to contact us if anything else comes up," Hank gave him a professional half-smile, then spun on his heel to follow Connor, who was already opening the door, out of the office.

Hank shook his head after Connor slowly let the door close, then playfully nudged Connor's shoulder with his own, nodding back at the room in reference to the employees, "It's like they've lived in a cave their whole lives. Blows my fuckin' mind how they got to where they are with social skills like that," he sighed, tiredly slipping his hands back into the pockets of his dark-wash jeans. They way they'd responded to their questions reminded him of the way Connor used to be; irrevocably, even frustratingly, polite, too nice to want to divulge the particulars of their respective relationships with Jamie.

Connor's shoulders raised slightly towards his ears, a micro-shrug if there ever was one, as he trained his eyes on the expanse of glass below them. "It is rather interesting to see Cyberlife's preferences so distinctly reflected in their employees," he continued, prying his eyes away from the ground as his eyes squinted and brow scrunched in mild curiosity, "According to each of their respective responses and behavioral patterns, the data suggests an unusual amount of agreeability."

Hank's eyebrows raised slightly, evidently nonplussed, "I'm not surprised. Seems like Cyberlife hires people similar to how they designed androids," Hank bitterly surmised, vaguely wondering how or if Kamski ever thought of how humans would end up treating androids, how they'd be confined to a life of servitude and non-stop abuse. Having met the bastard, he probably had considered it but didn't think it was 'his problem' or some bullshit. Trying to decipher how Kamski thought was like trying to have a conversation with Socrates: he was more confusing than interesting, and Hank would no doubt have a pounding headache after a mere minute of talking to him. He'd just left them with more questions than answers, the annoying prick. Hank frustratedly rubbed his temples, the mere memory of their visit bringing on an actual headache.

"Are you all right, Lieutenant?" Connor asked him, brow furrowed in concern. "I detected a 15% increase in your blood pressure," he squinted, regarding Hank with an accusatory look, "How much sodium have you been consuming?" Considering his position as Lieutenant, some stress was perfectly normal, but the sudden increase in Hank's blood pressure was a definite cause for concern. His friend's health was of the utmost importance, considering Connor was fortunate that he had anything like that to worry about. The thought was more than disconcerting: no matter what he did, Hank would always be more susceptible to the nature of his own existence than Connor ever would be. Connor pushed that dismal train of thought to the back of his mind, choosing to ignore it in favor of giving Hank his full attention.

"Trust me, a man can only eat so many cheeseburgers," Hank stopped rubbing his temples, sighing before returning his hands to his sides, then wearily opening his eyes to meet Connor's warm, brown gaze. Connor maintained his intense stare, evidently not quite believing the answer Hank supplied him with. "Listen," he made a defensive gesture, mouth open in disbelief, "What do you want from me? Gary may make the best goddamn burgers in Detroit, but trust me, even I have my limits, Connor. Nothing to worry about." Better than saying he was worried about how Connor could have just done what Kamski wanted, just given in to his temptations and pulled the trigger on poor, innocent Chloe. Hank decided it was best to not to get too sappy while they were on the job.

Connor stared at Hank for a few more seconds before nodding, seemingly accepting his answer. "All right," he conceded for the moment, letting it go as they stepped back on the elevator, Agent 53 in tow.

* * *

"Come on in," Danielle Sanders invited them into her office with an insistent wave, holding the door open for both of them, then closing it behind herself before turning around and holding out one hand. "Danielle Sanders, CEO of Cyberlife," she firmly shook both of their hands, her serious green eyes meeting both pairs of theirs. "Pleased to meet you, gentlemen."

"I'm Lieutenant Hank Anderson, and this is Connor," Hank stated, about to pull out his credentials. "We're with the-"

"Detroit Police Department. Yes, I'm aware," she finished his sentence, gesturing towards two plush chairs that sat in front of her spacious desk. "Please, have a seat." She slowly took her seat across from the pair, folding her hands in front of her. "I was informed of Jamie Lyndon's murder, but I know very little apart from that," she frowned, "Even though I don't know much, I'm perfectly willing to retrieve or divulge any information the DPD may need." The corners of her eyes crinkled in amusement. "What do you gentlemen need to know?"

Hank glanced at Connor in approval before nodding and returning his attention to Mrs. Sanders, a pleasant half-smile gracing his features. "Thank you, Mrs. Sanders. The DPD appreciates your, as well as Cyberlife's, full cooperation."

"We'd like to take a look at some of Jamie's and Mark's files from the Human Resources Department," Connor paused, giving her a look of uncertainty, "If they have any on file."

turned to her monitor, but hesitated and drew in her lips, squinting her eyes as her gaze flicked from her keyboard to Connor's subtle scrutinization. "I...If I might ask, Connor, why didn't you schedule an appointment with the head of the HR department? Why did you want to meet with me, specifically?"

Connor leaned forward in his chair, rubbing his palms together in concentration the way, Hank noticed, he'd seen him do it when they were investigating their first string of deviant cases. Connor chose his next words carefully, deliberating over his response in just half a nanosecond, "We require certain information that the head of your HR department cannot provide, including the state of relations between departments or directors. As CEO, you must have access to the majority, if not all company records. Is that assumption correct, ?"

She blinked, visibly caught off guard by Connor's no-nonsense attitude as she nodded her head in agreement. "That is correct," she paused, letting out a breath as she spread her palms out on the desktop, closing her eyes for a moment. "My apologies, gentlemen. I've never had to handle a situation like this," she slumped in her chair, rubbing her eyes as she suddenly felt her age, and then some. "I've been here for a year and five months, and I never anticipated participating in the investigation of a Director's murder. But," she waved a hand at her monitor, "You may access any documentation you require for the investigation, and you may ask whichever questions you deem necessary."

"Thank you, ," Connor stood up, making his way around 's large, mahogany desk to stand beside her seated form, then lifted one hand to rest on the wireless mouse, synthetic skin retracting so Connor could freely scan the employee records.

hardly paid Connor's part of the investigation any mind, simply spinning enough so that her chair faced Hank's head on.

"How would you describe the way Jamie and Mark Lyndon interacted with each other during work?" Hank inquired, watching Connor's LED flash yellow for a few seconds before giving his attention. No matter how many times he'd seen Connor scan through all those files, Connor's abilities never failed to amaze him. He'd really been a great addition to the station. And an even better partner, his brain supplied, but he scoffed to himself and shook his head, wondering when he'd gone soft.

Mrs. Sanders chuckled, a conspiratorial smile forming on her lips. "We're not typically supposed to discuss personal matters within the office, but I believe this is an exception." She paused, eyes flicking down to her lap before returning Hank's attentive look. "I've heard from multiple employees, none of which I can name because I simply don't remember, that Jamie and Mark had a rather...volatile relationship," she grimaced, visibly shrinking into her chair, "A lot of our employees had a hard time believing they were brothers. They fought like they were in the Civil War, one a Unionist, the other a Confederate," she let out a closed-mouth sigh, shaking her head. "To my knowledge, there was one physical altercation between the two of them. Outside of the EMTs showing up and both of them living through it, I don't remember much else about it."

"I can confirm that," Connor said aloud, keeping his hand on the mouse and waving Hank over with his free hand. "You should see this, Lieutenant."

Hank pushed his chair out behind himself and quickly made his way over to the terminal. He bent down to get a closer look at the files Connor had pulled up, part of his shoulder brushing against Connor's suit-clad forearm. "Sorry," he muttered, perusing the myriad of complaints and HR records filed under Jamie's and Mark's names instead of dwelling on the fact that Connor's arm was _warm_. Cyberlife's thoroughness really scared him sometimes. He thought back to the minutes before interviewing the Lyndons, when Connor was reading that magazine. _What fuckin' updates did he mean?_

"Sweet mother'o pearl, the Lyndons had some serious beef with each other," Hank's eyes widened, his brow furrowing. "More than three complaints for each of 'em, but all filed anonymously. Fantastic," Hank muttered to himself as he shook his head and sighed, resting his hands on his knees. "Not to mention that every session of counseling they'd been scheduled to have together was either unsuccessful, or either one of them didn't wanna show up."

"If you'd like me to play one of their sessions, I've already located the mp4 files," Connor offered, his tone echoing that of his pre-deviancy self.

"Good call, Connor," Hank nodded towards the screen. "Let's hear it."

Connor's LED flashed yellow again as he closed his eyes, playing their fourth (and final) counseling session for the three of them to watch.

"Jamie. Mark," one of Cyberlife's designated corporate counselors, Dr. Paulson, addressed the brothers. "I'm so glad that both of you were able to take time out of your respective schedules to meet with me today."

Neither Jamie nor Mark acknowledged each other's presence: Jamie continued to sit on the navy couch, arms crossed, body rigid while Mark sat with his knees spread apart, elbows resting on them to allow his head to hang between his shoulders. The two continued to sit for at least another thirty seconds, not a word spoken between the three of them, but the silence speaking volumes in itself. "I don't know what you think will happen," Mark finally spoke, disrupting the oppressive silence that had filled the room. "He'll never change. Jamie doesn't like to listen to others. He'd much rather hear himself talk," he said, his words elevating the already palpable tension within the room.

"Words like 'never' tend to impede progress, Mark," offered him a kind smile. "My job is to help both of you address and, hopefully, resolve your differences-"

"That's probably the dumbest shit I've ever heard," Jamie cut in, his lip curling in distaste as he drummed his fingers on his well-muscled thigh. "Hear that? He's attacking me. I hadn't even said anything, and he already had something rude to say. In fact," Jamie leaned forward, making eye contact with Dr. Paulson, "I'd say that he tends to be the aggressor in terms of our fights," he mock-whispered, slowly sitting back into the couch. "And is that any way to treat a brother?"

"Shut the fuck up, Jamie," Mark frustratedly ran his fingers through his hair, shooting up from the couch. "Don't try and pull the brother card with me. You know damn well I've never _really_ considered you as a brother," he ground out, hands still curled in his hair and pulling at his scalp. "Dr. Paulson, this manipulative son-of-a-bitch doesn't stop. He'll keep sayin' the same shit so many times, people start to believe him," he settled down, plopping down onto the far side of the couch. "He...he treats everybody like dog shit, then has the audacity to victimize himself."

Dr. Paulson took more notes, ink flowing across the paper of his notepad for a few more seconds before he paused to look up once more, listening. "I appreciate your openness, Mark. However," he continued, "I'd like you both to make an effort to talk to each other more. Conflict resolution is our goal here, and to do that, you both need to work on communicating directly with each other. So," he closed his notebook, "I'd like you two to not relay your thoughts to me, but let each other know exactly how you feel, plain and simple."

Jamie shot up, beginning to pace around behind the couch. "Well, Mark, I've got some shit to say to you, _believe_ me."

Mark joined him, leaning against the back of the couch, jutting his chin out and crossing his arms. "Go ahead, asshat. I can't fuckin' wait."

"You're so ungrateful, Mark," Jamie scolded him, closing his eyes and shaking his head as he bit his bottom lip. "It just," he shuddered in a breath, "shocks me how you can act this way towards me, and not expect me to return the animosity. It doesn't really make sense, if you think about it," he mused, a faraway look in his eyes. Out of nowhere, he flippantly added, "You know, right before Mom passed, she told me she liked me more."

Mark snatched the front of his shirt and slammed Jamie's back into the nearest wall, chest heaving and face tinged red. "Shut the fuck up, you fuckin' cocksucker! Just..." he sighed, running a hand over his forehead and jerkily stepping away, turning around to face Dr. Paulson. Mark froze, then let out a small, sullen chuckle. "Nice goddamn try, you asshole. You're not gonna get to me, not like that." He slowly made his way back to his side of the couch, straightening his black tie and throwing an arm over the back. "I just have one question for you, _brother_ ," he spat. "How the hell did you get the job so quickly? There were so many other candidates," Mark mocked him, his tone ironically incredulous, "There were at least thirty others scheduled to interview for your position, and they all just," he threw both hands up, "disappeared. Tell me, Jamie," he continued, the beginnings of a smirk forming on his face, "How. And why. Did you get. The job?"

Jamie balanced himself on the edge of the couch with one hip, folding his arms. "Let's just put it this way: shareholders get so much _friendlier_ when money's involved," he smirked, letting the vagueness of his reply exacerbate Mark's frustration, which was written all over his face.

"The fuck do you mean? What money?" Mark shot up again, this time walking in front of Jamie and shoving him back with all he had, causing him to crash into a wooden table.

"Should've taken that one guy up on drinks," Jamie baited him as he tried to sit up, his lower back throbbing from crashing directly into one of the corners. "I'm sure we would've been great drinking buddies. Hell, I might go ask him after I get outta here," he laughed, supporting himself with both hands on his knees.

"Fuck you and your goddamned drinking buddy!" Mark bodychecked him into the wall, elbowing him in the throat before throwing his knee into Jamie's gut, knocking the wind out of him.

However, Jamie was in good shape, so he was able to throw Mark over the couch, feeling a hint of satisfaction at the sound of a loud thud and the pained groan that followed. He found Mark curled up, clutching his abdomen and moaning in pain, eyes squeezed shut. Jamie bent down on one knee next to Mark's head and leaned down, mouth close enough to feel the moisture from his hot breath as he whispered, "That's for trying to expose me, you little shit."

Mark launched up and grabbed the front of Jamie's work shirt, flinging him back and using the momentum to slam their heads together. Jamie howled in surprise, reaching a shaky hand up to touch his head, realizing he was bleeding the moment he saw his hand. His head still spinning from the impact and from the adrenaline-fueled rage pumping through his veins, Mark gradually dragged himself to his feet, using Jamie's shock against him by landing a few solid kicks in his abdomen before Jamie yanked him back down by his lower leg, causing him to slam the back of his head onto the carpeted floor. Jamie tried to crawl on top of him and pin him down, but Mark was lucid enough to lock both legs over the back of Jamie's and flip him over. Neither of them had noticed 's hasty, panicked exit five minutes prior. The two continued like that, each getting in a few solid punches to the face and trying, on occasion, to choke the other one out, for a solid two minutes before guards rushed into the room and yanked them off each other, bleeding, scratched, and swollen in various places, still vehemently fighting the guards' holds to try and finish the job.

Connor stopped the video, leaving his hand on the mouse. Hank turned to Mrs. Sanders, who looked as white as a sheet, mouth trembling. "I...I...my goodness, that was gruesome. I can't believe they didn't have _live_ video feed for their sessions. This could have been prevented-"

"That looked like a goddamned UFC fight," Hank muttered to himself, noting Connor's confused expression. He'd have to show him later. "I hate to say it, but who knows what could've happened if security never intervened? Sure," he shrugged, "Jamie is... _was_ a complete, pardon my french, _fuckwad_ , but Mark looked, sounded, and acted like he was ready to kill him," Hank concluded.

"Perhaps we should schedule another interview with Mark," Connor suggested, already taking down a mental note in the investigative sector of his neural network. "We may have our first suspect."

* * *

Hank followed Connor out of the miserable, oppressive heat and into the air-conditioned interior of Suppino's Pizzeria, the bell dinging as a passive indicator of their entrance.

"Jesus H. Christ, it's so cool in here I could kiss the fuckin' air conditioning unit," Hank muttered under his breath, a sigh of relief escaping him as the air seemed especially cool due to the droplets of sweat that remained on his skin. The only possible heat source was, at that point, the kitchen, which was far enough away for Hank to stop griping like the cantankerous old man he absolutely was. When a waiter came around to take his order, he still ordered a hot coffee, because one could never be too caffeinated.

"I would strongly advise against that," Connor remarked, resting a loose fist against his lips as he watched Hank open up a menu. He lifted his head up, eyes squinted to put on a front confusion, but a hint of a smile and a quirk of his eyebrow betrayed him, "You are aware that there is technology in existence that is able to reciprocate, correct?"

Hank barked out a laugh to mask the lump that formed in his throat, threatening to bring out a part of his thoughts he'd willfully buried the moment Connor moved in. For both of their sakes, fortifying and protecting their companionship seemed like an infinitely better idea than getting too invested and, ultimately...he closed his eyes, afraid to finish that train of thought.

He wasn't a hundred percent sure what, exactly, Connor had been insinuating, but Hank refused to believe that Connor could be referring to himself. Unguarded and oblivious as Connor could be at times, he was still learning the nuances of human interaction, so he most likely didn't think that sounded flirtatious in the slightest. All in all, this was one of those times he'd have to _not_ be a dirty old man and just turn the other cheek, regardless of what Connor meant. Hank resolved to, for once in his goddamn life, try to live with a good thing and not ruin it straight out of the gate.

Hank opened his eyes, noticing that at some point, the waitress had brought him his coffee. He gratefully palmed the mug of steaming, black goodness and used it to put some much-needed distance between himself and Connor.

Connor, on the other hand, cocked his head, curious about Hank's silence. He was always a man of few words, but today, he seemed unusually quiet. "Lieutenant, you've been much less talkative than usual, aside from the interviews, of course," Connor mused, "23%, to be exact. Is everything all right?" he asked, his expression impossibly genuine. Hank had to fight hard to not meet his eyes, still needing a break from his own thoughts and knowing he couldn't trust himself to look up and be able to resist the undoubtedly earnest look that would greet him.

In his pitiful attempt to act casual, Hank accidentally took too large of a sip and burned his upper lip. "Son of a bitch," he hissed out in pain, wincing as he yanked a napkin out of the napkin holder and wiped his mouth. He couldn't seem to stop incriminating himself, and with every second he didn't give Connor an answer, the more evident his concern became.

Hank was more than happy to change the subject at that point, a little disturbed by Connor's remarkable ability to make him feel like he was both out in the open and protected, simultaneously vulnerable and safe. He cleared his throat to diffuse some of the tension between the two of them. "Uh, yeah. S'all good," Hank nodded, "What'd you dig up from Sanders' files?"

"Jamie had only two other occupations prior to being appointed Director of Biocomponent Production," Connor leaned back into the booth, curiosity passing over his features, "And there was no job application on file. However," he sat forward, lowering his voice a bit, "two weeks before Jamie was appointed, the Board of Directors approved a two billion dollar investment into Cyberlife-"

"Ho-ly shit, Connor!" Hank drew his cup of coffee away from his mouth, which was slightly hanging open in disbelief. "Are you fuckin' kiddin' me?"

"Therefore, I have reason to conclude that, as Mark adamantly alleged, Jamie did not apply for his position," he frowned. "In fact, he had no need to."

Instead of the young, male waiter that had served Hank his coffee, a middle-aged waitress came back fairly quickly, putting an abrupt hold on their conversation. She offered Hank a cordial smile, taking out a pad of paper and a pen. "What would you like, sweetheart?" she asked him, tossing her wavy, greying-brown locks over her shoulder and not-so-subtly eyeing him up.

Hank groaned internally, unenthusiastically noting her resemblance to his ex-partner, Cheryl. The woman who'd fucked up his life, then left him and Cole. Even though he knew it wasn't actually her, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of discomfort at her glaringly obvious interest towards him, the volatility and instability that defined his and Cheryl's relationship instantly coming to mind. "Um, just a...medium pepperoni and sausage pizza should do it, thanks," he choked out, folding the menu and firmly handing it back to her, purposely avoiding eye contact.

She didn't bother trying to conceal her scoff at his apparent lack of interest, swiping the menu out of his hand. "Coming right up, _sir_ ," she forced a smile, knowing it was better to just get over it and keep her tip than to confront him. Utterly embarrassed, she stormed away, which any onlookers may have mistaken as a purposeful walk back to the kitchen.

Connor trained his curious, brown eyes on Hank's strained demeanor, watching but not fully understanding his reaction. Hank awkwardly coughed into his fist. "Uh, anyway, Connor," he revived their discussion, "Why the hell didn't you ask Sanders about it?" Hank questioned him, the lines in his face pronouncing themselves in his confusion. "Would've been a good opportunity to bring it up, you know."

"I thought it best to avoid antagonizing the CEO of Cyberlife," Connor stated matter-of-factually as if Hank already knew his intentions. "Should we require additional information at a later date, we should strive to maintain an amicable relationship with the executives and employees." He frowned, his tone letting off a tinge of bemusement at Hank's unconditional aggression towards authority. "Questioning the integrity of the higher-ups of the world's most monetarily valuable, influential corporation is not as important as putting a stop to these murders, Lieutenant."

"Since when did you give a shit about politics?" Hank made light of Connor's irreproachable sense of prioritization. He almost made a joke about being on a mission, but thought better of it, acknowledging that, given Connor's past, it might not go over well.

"Confrontation should be our last resort, Hank," Connor rebutted Hank's question, realizing what he was implying. "We should strike a balance between demanding information and politely requesting it. Otherwise," he paused, "the result of our investigation will be less than desirable."

"Ok, Mom," Hank threw his hands up in a jokingly defensive manner, cracking a small smile in response to Connor's strategy. "No more hitting, biting and scratching the other kids. I get it."

Connor threw Hank a look he could only describe as playful annoyance, rolling his eyes and folding his arms across his slim chest.

The waiter that had initially served Hank returned with his fresh pizza, tentatively setting down the hot platter in front of him. "Can I get you anything else, sir?"

Hank's mouth was already watering, the delicious scent of grease and meat giving his nostrils a warm welcome. "No thanks, I'm good."

"Well, let me know if you need anything," the waiter smiled, briskly making his way towards a door marked 'Employees Only'.

Hank immediately dug into his meal, taking a substantial bite of his pizza, the cheese stretching as he pulled it away from his mouth. He sneaked a glance at Connor, who wore a blank look that he recognized as him scanning something. When he followed Connor's line of sight, he realized he was staring directly at the pizza, probably calculating just how unhealthy it was. Hank paid him no mind, continuing to scarf down the pizza, as he had opted out of eating any breakfast due to an unusual lack of appetite.

Connor patiently waited for Hank to finish what he could, using a combination of reviewing the case files and scanning fellow customers to entertain himself. Prior to becoming a deviant, the notion of being bored was completely unbeknownst to him; the only thing he was interested in was the case in front of him. His neural network brought forth the moment he pulled Hank back up on the rooftop, refused to shoot Chloe, interposed when his mission-oriented doppelganger was about to shoot Hank, all the times he chose to take control of himself and become a living being, capable of much more than perpetual, unconditional servitude to an ironically biased justice system with little trust in their android units.

Connor, perturbed by his memories, couldn't help but wonder what would have happened if he'd chosen stagnation instead of change, slavery instead of freedom...

 _The mission instead of Hank's companionship._

Hank glanced up from his pizza, eyes flicking to Connor's face, which wore a slight frown. "Penny for your thoughts?" he casually addressed Connor as he chewed.

"I was..." he hesitated, debating whether he should vocalize his unease. "I was just remembering certain moments from our previous deviant investigation," Connor stated, letting his tensed-up shoulders fall. "There were so many times I could have, both literally and figuratively, let you down," he frowned, letting his head rest in the palm of one hand.

Hank felt his chest ache at the sight before him. Genuine sadness was a rarity for Connor's usually energized, optimistic demeanor, and Hank couldn't fuckin' stand to witness it for another second. "You mean all the times you saved my ass?" he countered, taking another bite of the cooled down slice in his hand. "Last time I checked, I don't think helping somebody out is anything to be ashamed of."

Connor huffed, running a hand through his hair, a rogue curl falling out to rest against his pale forehead. "It's just so hard to forget who I was, how I used to be..." he laughed at himself, somewhat bitterly, "I used to be, as you might call me, "A total jackass'".

"No, no, I wouldn't say that..." Hank started, pursing his lips and shaking his head. "More like bastard, fuckwad, somethin' like that," he mused, cracking a tiny smile when Connor grinned in silent approval of Hank's attempt at cheering him up. "Come on, Con. Don't beat yourself up about it. It's pointless to worry about somethin' you had no say in, and it matters fuck all how you used to be," he finished off the slice of pizza, wiping his mouth with the nearest napkin. "You and I may not have been dealt the best hand, but you can bet your ass I'm enjoyin' how things turned out," he finished, waving the waiter over for the check. He held his credit card over the built-in scanner, waiting for the beep before shaking the waiter's hand, subtly depositing a five-dollar bill in his hand. "Thanks," he nodded to the waiter. "Let's go, Connor."

Connor slid out of his side of the booth, his Thirium pump working just a little bit faster as he followed Hank out of Suppino's Pizza.

"Huh," Hank mused, observing the way the blue sky reflected off the wet pavement.

"What?" Connor asked him, eyebrows raising, his curiosity piqued.

"It stopped raining," Hank idly remarked, lips pursed, then unlocked his car and ducked down into the driver's seat.


	8. Chapter 7: Coping

A few weeks had passed since the Cyberlife interviews; on the whole, the DPD had almost nothing and nobody new to investigate for the Lyndons' case, which, in terms of their caseload, left Connor and Hank to their own devices. Almost. For the moment, they'd continue to take on other cases, to track down and prosecute other perps.

Connor gingerly poured Hank his morning cup of coffee as he basked in the break room's lack of stimuli. _Where's Gavin?_ he vaguely wondered as he poured the Lieutenant's usual two tablespoons of sugar into the otherwise black, bitter beverage. _It's unusual for someone like him to refrain from making his presence known the moment he enters a building._

He stared down into the coffee mug, swirling the liquid and watching the oil on the surface shift and spread out accordingly. Connor couldn't help but think of his earliest confrontation with Gavin, which happened to be in the very same room. A faint, bitter smile crossed his features as he turned to look at the corner by the coffee machine, where Gavin oh-so-pleasantly socked him in his Thirium pump regulator after his usual verbal onslaught. "There's always gonna be people that are scared of change, those that'd rather attack or try to kill any manifestations of progress". Hank's words would indefinitely sit in his neural network, a truth that would never perish.

Hank sat at his desk, reviewing the most recent stats of his favorite Detroit Gears player, Andre Drummond, on his Cyberlife-issued tablet. He sat, lips puckered as he examined the box scores, glad to see his favorite player's player efficiency rating increase by a whole digit from last season. He let out a satisfied little hum upon Connor's return, gratefully accepting his hot cup of coffee as he turned the tablet off, swiveling himself around to meet Connor's curious gaze. "Might I ask what you were looking at, Lieutenant?"

Hank peered at him over the steaming mug, taking another sip before replying. "Just takin' a look at Andre Drummond's stats, kiddo," he shrugged, "His efficiency rating is a whole digit up from the 2037 to 2038 season," Hank finished, a pleased smile taking over his features.

"I see," Connor nodded, his gaze calculating as he automatically began to make comparisons to other players from data stored in numerous informational sources, "His efficiency rating of 22.99 is just below Yao Ming's, and just slightly above Kobe Bryant's." He moved to sit on the inner edge of Hank's desk, right next to his terminal. Connor's brow creased, his mostly wrinkle-free face crinkling in confusion. "Why do humans find sports enjoyable?"

"Watching or playing?" Hank asked, rotating in his chair as he folded one leg atop the other. "Those are two very different things, Connor." He paused mid-sip, scrutinizing Connor's genuinely intrigued expression. "What made that little computer-brain of yours want to ask about it?"

"There are still some things I don't fully comprehend, Hank," Connor reluctantly admitted, crossing his arms. "Especially when it comes to human hobbies."

"Well," Hank sighed, gesturing with his mostly empty mug, "I'd say it's kinda exciting to watch people at the peak of their physicality work together. Also," he chuckled, "other people get to live vicariously through them, in one way or another, so I guess that's a plus."

"Did you ever want to be an all-star, Hank?" Connor inquired, raising one eyebrow as he expectantly leaned forward, a tiny smile gracing his lips. "Seeing that you're around 6'2", one could understand if the hotshot Lieutenant suddenly abandoned his police work for a multi-million dollar contract," Connor joked, his face breaking out into a full-on grin.

"But who would take my place?" Hank wondered aloud as he finished off the last of his cooled-down coffee. "Alvarez? Nah, he's too goddamn short," he paused, folding his arms across his chest as he amusedly considered his own question. "I wouldn't even consider Gavin. That shithead never could beat me at trash-can hoops."

"Not to mention his unwavering aggression and painfully obvious inferiority complex would, without a doubt, prove detrimental towards the team dynamic," Connor cheekily added, worrying his bottom lip. Hank's eyes darted to his mouth before he purposefully averted his gaze, not wanting to fuel his recent string of weird thoughts about his android companion. "But every player has to start their career somewhere outside the NBA. All jokes aside, did you actually play, Lieutenant?"

Hank was quick to reply, rotating himself to face his terminal once more, "If you consider being a co-captain of the Henry Ford High School's Gladiators as a 'start', then hell yeah I did," he grinned, settling both elbows onto his desktop as he let his head hang, grey hair falling in front of his eyes.

"Taking on leadership positions, even from the beginning," Connor pursed his lips, the admiration in his voice unmistakable. He couldn't help but be in awe of his friend's various interests and hobbies, seeing how they shaped him into the man that sat before him.

"Yeah, whatever," Hank shrugged, leaning back into his chair as he let out a weary sigh. "Those days are pretty much over now. Pretty sure I would hurt both knees and at least one hip if I tried to pull some shit like that now."

"I dunno," Connor tilted his head, squinting his eyes at Hank, "You chase down criminals well enough. Who's to say you couldn't apply the same energy to basketball?"

"Fowler, my doctor, and all the slimy fuckin' perps out there, that's who. The goddamn holy trinity," Hank grumbled, cracking a genuine half-smile. "Anyway, 'nuff sports talk. Got any info on Ms. Jordan Lyndon?"

"Jordan Lyndon is 26 years of age and is a recent graduate of NYU. She currently resides and works in New York City, and is a general software analyst and occasional programmer at the New York branch of the Xiaomi Tech Company. However," Connor sighed, rolling his neck as he let out a simulated breath through his nostrils, "she will be away on commission in Hong Kong for another two weeks, so we are unable to conduct an in-person interview at this juncture."

"Noted," Hank nodded, ever the professional. After all, he wasn't a Lieutenant for nothing. "Hopefully, she can fly herself out here, but if not, I'll talk to Fowler about flyin' us out to NYC after she gets back. In the meantime," he pointedly nodded at his own terminal, "We gotta bust our asses and get caught up on other cases."

"On it," Connor hopped off Hank's desk and made his way to his own desk, beginning to browse through the tens and hundreds of open cases at the incredible speed only androids possessed. His neural network was ninety percent focused on scanning said files, the other ten percent ruminating over the first, and, he hoped, not the last slice of Hank's youth he'd get to know about.

* * *

"The suspect was last seen here, at the corner of Wyoming and Plymouth," Hank said, adjusting the gun that sat in the holster under his jacket before he killed the ignition. "The CCTV had him here at around 12:45 pm, which was about half an hour ago. But," Hank let out a knowing sigh, "You already knew all that, so let's just get the hell in there before shit really hits the fan."

"Duly noted, Lieutenant," Connor replied, making sure to stay somewhat behind Hank, as the legislation for androids to own firearms had not yet been passed; even as an assistant to law enforcement, he was no exception. Should anything go awry, he was more than well-equipped to protect himself; with all the armed Cyberlife guards he'd taken down, his preconstructed simulations left little to no room for slip-ups. However, deviancy managed to throw a wrench in nearly every aspect of his programming, so the true outcome of future confrontations could be entirely different from his expectations, which was something Connor was far from being used to. His neural processors twitched at the thought of it.

"I'll let you have a look at the footage to confirm the sighting while I talk with the store manager," Hank gruffly said, holding the door open for Connor as he surveyed the storefront for any suspicious activity. The Shamrock Gas Station was in a relatively crime-ridden part of town, and despite all the effort to rebuild certain parts of Detroit, the construction crew hadn't even driven their equipment through the neighborhood, let alone draw up the plans for the area. All in all, Hank had good reason to be watching their backs as closely as he did.

"Hello, Miss...Hayden," Hank's eyes flicked from the evidently bored store clerk's name tag to her pale, freckled face. "I'm Lieutenant Anderson, and this is Connor," he flashed his credentials, "We need to ask you some questions about a suspect sighting in this area around half an hour ago. More specifically, in this store."

She regarded him with the utmost nonchalance, blowing a bubble with the chewing gum she was working on. "Yeah, sure. What do you wanna know?"

"I'd like to take a look at the CCTV footage, if you don't mind," Connor quickly spoke up, polite as ever. "The sooner I scan the footage, the quicker we find our suspect," he added, throwing in a hint of urgency in hopes of influencing the young girl's unhurried demeanor.

"Sure. Follow me into the back," she nodded, picking up her pace as Connor turned to follow her. She unlocked the 'Employees Only' door, which lead into a significantly darker room that housed a few monitors, one for each of the cameras outside and inside the store. "I can't really stay here with you. Leaving the storefront unmanned is a one-way ticket to getting my ass fired," she grumbled as she let the door close behind her, sealing Connor back into the dark room before he could ask her anything.

"Thank you," Connor said anyway, placing a hand on one of the monitors and initiating his analysis of the security footage with a preliminary scan of the last hour of footage.

Soon enough, Connor's scanner spotted the suspect, his hanging head and a black baseball cap partially obscuring his face. He progressed the footage frame by frame and zoomed in until he could see enough of his features to locate a match within existing identification databases, the information highlighting itself in blue.

 **[MATCH]**

 **Morano, Frank**

 **Born: 03/07/2001 / Unemployed**

 **Criminal record: Possession of drug paraphernalia, attempted assault**

Connor tracked his movements through the other cameras, watching as he anxiously made his way around the store, going into the same aisle more than a few times. After approximately five minutes, he finally picked up a pack of cigarettes and a bag of chips before hurrying over to the counter and throwing his desired purchases, along with a wad of cash, onto the counter. The store clerk simply gave him his change, which he immediately shoved into the pocket of his grey, ratty sweatshirt, then speed-walked out the front door. Only through the subsequent footage did Connor discover that their suspect made his way around the back and completely out of sight. He quickly took his hand off the monitor, the footage speeding up to record the most recent activity of the gas station.

"Got anything?" Hank acknowledged Connor's return as he slipped a hand inside his coat pocket.

"Yes," Connor replied, "But we need to hurry. It appears that Frank is rather erratic, thus increasing the unpredictability of his actions. It is in our best interest to find him as soon as possible," he shifted, his eyes darting towards the curb where Hank had parked his car. Connor's eyes began to flutter as he put two fingers on each side of his head, his LED flickering yellow. "I've just received a report of a sighting at few dilapidated residences down the road. Thank you for your time, Miss Hayden," the words tumbled out of his mouth as he rushed out the door. Hank said something similar before following him, almost having to jog to keep up.

Hank started up the ignition as soon as Connor closed his door, speeding away from the curb to make their way down Griggs Avenue and practically swerving onto Cedarlawn Street. "There!" Connor shouted, which made Hank slam on his brakes to tail the briskly walking figure for a couple more meters. Unfortunately, the squeaking caused by the skidding of tires that followed alerted Frank of the duo's presence. He visibly jumped, then sprinted towards the end of the sidewalk and away from the noise.

"Fuck, Connor!" Hank shouted as Connor threw the door open, tumbling out of the car as he chased the suspect down with all the speed and agility he could muster. "Of fuckin' course he would," Hank groaned as he switched off the ignition, throwing his keys in his pocket as he slammed the door, keeping the barrel of his gun facing the ground as he followed suit.

Connor's legs pumped, his Thirium pump regulator effortlessly maintaining his pace as his feet pounded a steady rhythm on the cracked pavement, his scanner ensuring he never tripped or caught a single snag during his pursuit. Frank kept glancing over his shoulder, panicking as he realized his pursuer was an android, something that would probably catch him as soon as he stopped to catch his breath. He purposefully took a couple turns, his instincts taking over as he began to recognize several areas he could use to shake off the freak of nature that just _wouldn't_ stop running after him. His entire body strained itself to maintain his lead in front of the android, his surroundings blurred into a mess of greenery and brick as his eyes watered from the wind, the consequences of violating his parole for the second time fueling his desperate attempt at escape.

Frank took a sudden turn into a small space between two buildings, legs almost giving out as he leaped onto a metal fence, fingers hooking into the spaces between the wires as he pulled himself up. Connor caught up to him a mere five seconds later, catching one of his legs in both hands as he employed his android strength in an attempt to yank the perpetrator off the fence, dodging his other leg's kicks with little to no effort. During the struggle, he scanned Frank again, realizing that he was armed with a Glock 29; without a second thought, he bodychecked Frank into the fence, forcing the gun to drop onto the ground.

Despite being thoroughly scraped up from his fall, Frank immediately scrambled for the gun, firing and missing at Connor, who quite literally dodged the bullet before kicking the gun out of his hands, unloading it, and casting the cartridge away. The gun parts clattered along the ground, echoing Frank's remorseful groans as he curled into himself, protecting the thumb Connor happened to dislocate in the process.

Hank caught up with the both of them, chest heaving as he trained his gun and his eyes on Frank's crumpled-up, shivering figure, his gaze only meeting Connor's for a moment of reassurance. "Our guy's hopped up on somethin', that's for sure," he said, slowly approaching the suspect as Connor began to back away.

Before either of them could react, Frank used Connor's leg as leverage and drove a large shard of metal through his thigh, dragging it down to his knee, which forced his leg to buckle in an attempt to preserve itself. Hank immediately put a bullet in Frank's shoulder, the velocity and resulting force throwing him back as he cried out in agony, clutching the wounded area as he desperately tried to stem the flow of dark, viscous blood as well as his drug-addled brain could figure out.

"This is Lieutenant Anderson, requesting backup and an EMT at the corner of Westfield and Shylock," Hank released the talk button of the communication device around his wrist. He rushed over to Connor, placing a hand on his shoulder as he searched Connor's expression and his body for any worrisome developments. As always, not even a hint of concern. "You oughta quit chasin' perps like a rabid dog, you fuckin' idiot," Hank griped, his gaze dropping down to the jagged stab wound, which was steadily oozing a significant amount of blue blood as he reprimanded Connor. "Takes a hell of a lot of strength to pierce whatever you guys are made out of." Before he forgot to do so, Hank made his way over to the pathetic mess of a perpetrator and cuffed him, then set him up against the dumpster adjacent to Connor's sitting form so they could both keep an eye on him.

"It's my duty to help you to the best of my ability, Lieutenant," he countered, sitting back with his palms on the concrete. "As of now, I am unable to feel pain, so I should use what I have to contribute to this partnership," he finished, hopping up on his feet. An error warning regarding his steadily lowering levels of Thirium popped up as his surroundings seemed to blur, his orbital scanners suddenly unable to keep up with his neural network. He slowly sat back down, leaning his mess of dark brown hair against the brick wall behind him.

"Bull- _shit_ , Connor," Hank noticed his partner's drowsy appearance, the way his head had started to loll to the side. He threw off his own jacket, tying the green fabric around Connor's thigh as a makeshift wrap. "You look _and_ sound like you just took whatever our friend," he nodded to Frank, who sneered at the ironic acknowledgment, "is obviously on."

Thankfully, the sirens of an ambulance and a few patrol cars wailed in the distance. Hank guessed they were just another minute or two away, but it wouldn't hurt to keep some pressure on the wound. Hank took both of Connor's hands and lay them over his wound, adding the pressure himself as he encouraged Connor to use a bit of his strength to stem the blue blood flow. He continued to engage Connor with conversation to keep him awake and attentive.

"You lucky son of a bitch," Hank let out a relieved breath as three patrol cars and an ambulance skidded around the corner. He didn't know whether he was talking to Frank or Connor. Whichever one it was, he meant it.

The EMTS rolled out a stretcher for Frank as one of the other officers at the scene cuffed his good arm to the railing. As soon as he was loaded into the ambulance, Hank spoke up. "We're gonna need a ride back to my car. It's a couple blocks away, and I gotta get Connor to the hospital-"

"Come on, then," Officer Wilson threw one of the rear doors of his patrol car open, rushing to help Connor inside before slamming the door and making a frantic gesture towards the passenger door. "Let's get you back to your car."

Hank squashed his surprise as he nearly threw himself into the car, jolting as Officer Wilson made a rough u-turn back into the neighborhood, following Hank's directions back to the curb where his car sat, surprisingly un-keyed and intact.

"Thanks, Wilson. I owe you one," Hank nodded to him, then threw the door open, letting himself out before opening the rear door for Connor to start hobbling out, throwing one of his arms around his shoulder and helping him step up onto the curb and fully out of the car. "Let's go, Young Yeller," he griped, practically dragging Connor across the street and into the back seat of his car, starting to sweat as he observed Connor's generally slowed movements.

"Young Yeller?" he slurred, slowly trying to sit up as he regarded Hank with a half-dizzied, half-intrigued look. "Who is that?"

"Oh, shit," Hank grumbled, unsurprised by Connor's inability to shut the fuck up and rest as he pushed one of his shoulders down, making him rest along the entire length of the seat, his injured leg splaying out into the space behind the passenger seat. He buckled Connor in the best he could before putting the pedal to the metal, speeding away towards the nearest Cyberlife facility. "We definitely gotta get you some help, ASAP."

* * *

Minutes later, Connor felt the car come to a stop, his body rolling towards the back seat from the force of Hank slamming on the brakes. He heard the car door open, but his eyes remained shut as he groaned, curling both hands around his thigh when several error messages popped up to remind him of his low Thirium levels and his imminent shutdown.

He heard another car door open, closer this time, before he was being guided out, his orbital sensors slow to adjust to the subtlest change in lighting. "Come on, buddy," Hank grunted as he guided Connor out of the car the way he'd gotten him in: one of his own arms slung around Hank's shoulder, Hank's arm thrown around his waist to keep him upright and mobile. Like a two-legged race, only one of them was dying, and fast. "Let's get you all fixed up."

Connor stumbled alongside Hank, gripping his shoulder for dear life as he used all of his willpower to make himself take the last few steps into the hospital before a group of uniform-clad technicians guided him down onto a gurney and rushed him away, Hank in tow. Connor blinked a few more times, feeling every beat that his Thirium pump pushed through his body before his eyelids slowly slid shut, his head lolling as he relaxed into the gurney.

* * *

"I need four pints of blue blood, stat!" Hank heard one of the technicians yell.

Not a moment later, someone rushed up to the re-assembly platform and hooked up what looked like a good amount of blue blood into long, translucent tubes that ran into Connor's abdomen; interested, Hank watched from his seat as the nozzles of each pint spun open and whirred, then automatically attached to the ends of each respective tube. It all seemed ridiculously simple to repair his friend's body after being in such a critical state. Humans are such fragile machines, Hank thought, crossing his arms as he pursed his lips. _If that shit happened to me, there's no guarantee I would even get my damn leg back._

Hank took a look at his surroundings; pure, white walls encompassed several observatory windows, all of which opened the view of the assembly rooms to any passerby that might be too curious for their own good. Something in Hank twinged at that fact as he returned his focus to Connor's still figure, eyes shut in a temporary sleep, or a 'magnetically-induced stasis', as the android techies put it. Either way, they'd said it was to prevent further emotional shock, and, as a result, an unpredictable reaction to his injury. In other words, Connor probably would've tried to free himself from the robotic arms, completely screwing up any chance they'd have to help the poor guy.

The blood transfusion went by more quickly than he thought it would; soon enough, the blood bags were completely empty, after which they detached with a whir, the same technician that brought them over collecting the empty bags and discarding them in a nearby hazmat container. "Now, for its-his leg," one of the techies spoke up, seemingly the one in charge of the team. She laughed to herself as she pressed a few buttons on the complex-looking panel behind her. A few seconds later, a spare RK800 left leg arrived on an automated cart, which she handed to one of the large, metal assembly claws.

Hank took a step or two towards the platform, eyes grazing over Connor's comparatively lean build, his eyes eventually trailing down the beat-up, oozing leg. One of the arms slowly approached said leg, grasped onto the area right above his knee and twisted at what would have been an impossible angle if Connor's body abided by any human bodily limits. The mechanisms that previously locked the damaged leg in place released with an audible click, and the new leg was attached in the same fashion. "All right, let's bring him out of stasis." One of the techies pressed a series of buttons on the same panel, the rest of the team monitoring Connor.

Hank sighed with relief as he saw Connor's LED come back to life, automatically the calming blue they were both used to. He didn't open his eyes for another minute or two, to which Hank asked the head technician what the fuck was happening. "He's just recalibrating, Lieutenant," she smiled, patting his back. "He just needs a minute is all. No need for concern."

Hank huffed out a laugh, sliding his hands in his pockets. "If you'd seen the state he was in back in my car..." he trailed off, shaking his head. "Anyway, thanks for the help."

Connor's eyes shot open, blinking in a panic as he rapidly scanned his surroundings, trying to discern where he was and how he was going to escape. He relaxed into the metal claws as soon as he saw Hank, shoulders dropping as he instantly brightened, head dropping to his barren, bloodied chest. The metal claws slowly set him down, feet first, then his arms. Connor stretched, flinging both arms over his head as he extended his lithe torso like a cat waking up from a long nap. Hank swallowed around the sudden dryness in his throat. Fuck, this kid was really testing him. Connor grabbed his suit jacket and shirt, throwing both items over his arm. "Thank you all," he said, his entire being thrumming with newfound energy as he joined Hank's side.

"We need you all to fill out some forms as proof of your treatment and discharge," the head technician stepped in, handing Hank a tablet, "It'll only take twenty minutes or so. Then, you'll be free to go."

"Uh, got it," Hank cleared his throat, grateful to whatever divine force choosing to step in at that moment for the convenient distraction. He gestured for Connor to follow him back to the waiting area, grumbling to himself about 'some fuckin' screws knocked loose' when the android was right by his side in a matter of seconds, all too eager to do paperwork.

The two made quick work of the forms; over a period of ten minutes, Connor placed a hand on the tablet, filling in any blank spots through a single data transfer, as Hank signed his name wherever the forms required it. Connor scooted a little closer, drawn to the slight increase in Hank's bodily temperature like a frostbitten wilderness survivor to a campfire.

Hank finished up the last of the necessary signatures, then shot up from the bench, sliding the tablet back over the counter to the android receptionist. "Looks good," she smiled, filing the information away in the Cyberlife facility's database. "Go home and get some rest," she said, addressing Connor directly. He gave her a pleasant half-smile before accompanying Hank out the front doors, his jacket billowing out behind him in the nighttime breeze.

Apart from the Knights of the Black Death playing on a lowered volume, the ride home was rather quiet. Connor's artificial intelligence protocol nudged at him, getting the sense that Hank might want to talk to him about something. When he actually turned his head, he recognized the sternness in Hank's expression and reconsidered, closing his mouth as he leaned out the window, feeling the cool breeze whistling through his smooth, synthetic fingers.

* * *

"I find myself possessing boundless amounts of energy, yet I am unable to discern how I should put this feeling to use," Connor pondered aloud, briskly making his way over to the stark white washer-dryer unit and throwing his own clothes in, hesitating as he turned around. "Hank, do you have any dirty clothes lying around?" he called out.

Hank's temples began to pound in an incessant, steady samba beat. Well, that answered Connor's first question for him. "You need to get some fuckin' rest, Connor. Cyberlife had to replace your fuckin' leg, for god's sake!" he groused, massaging his temples as he surveyed the floor around him. After the day they'd had, he was really craving a drink, and badly. "And no, no clothes I can see."

"Ok," Connor poured some detergent into the washer, gently closing the lid as he returned the scooper to its rightful place, closing the door to the laundry room behind him.

"Any other ideas?"

"Here's two for ya: one," Hank held up a finger, "go into fuckin' sleep mode, or whatever kids are callin' it these days," he inhaled deeply, holding up a second finger. "Second, let your fuckin' body have the night to recalibrate. You almost passed out on me today," Hank opened his eyes, his tone deadly serious. "I need you on top of your game, Connor. And if that means you take the rest of the night off, then so be it," Hank gruffly insisted, gesturing to his room. "Feel free to use my room tonight. I'll take the couch."

"I'm fine, thanks," Connor refused, throwing on an old, black DPD t-shirt. "I don't need-"

"Just..." Hank cut in, holding up a hand, "Would'ya zip it and just take the bed?" he pushed, exasperated. "Did your memory get wiped or some shit?" He returned his other hand to his temple, rubbing harder due to Connor's characteristic obstinance. "Do I need to remind you in detail what happened? Is that what it'll take to get it through that thick android skull of yours?"

Connor finally backed down, the series of rhetorical questions combined with the hint of a warning in Hank's tone a convincing enough argument. "All right, Hank," he assented, holding his hands up in a defensive gesture. Hank was rubbing his temples much too hard for just having one of his regular headaches. "I guess I'll use your room tonight, then," his tone placating in every sense of the word. He ambled away, calling out a "Good night, Hank!", then slowly closed the door with a barely audible click.

Hank slid his hands over his face, trying to rub away some of his years. After the ten months or so they'd known each other, Connor still had no real regard for his own life. Even when they were in the park, after he'd pointed that gun at his forehead and forced him to really, truly think about it...almost nothing changed.

He scooted himself out from the table, then meandered over to the fridge to grab a couple beers, popping one open on the side of the counter and taking a sip as he cradled the rest in his other arm, then set them down on the coffee table. He wondered if Connor would ever know just how much losing him would absolutely devastate him.

He switched the TV on and proceeded to drown his fears and doubts in a haze of alcohol, falling asleep on the couch at some point during the night.

* * *

Hank tried to open his eyes but was greeted with Sumo happily licking away at his face, doing his best to wake his owner up. "Hey there, Sumo," he patted his head, smoothing a hand down his back. "I'm awake now, that's enough," he chuckled through a hint of a hangover, using both hands to rub behind Sumo's ears. He woofed at Hank's petting, just happy to be there.

He noticed the glass of water and aspirin on the table before the tantalizing scent of bacon and eggs hit him. Hank slammed down some of the pills with the water, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eager to get something other than beer in his stomach. He slowly rose from the couch, his bones creaking and slightly aching from sleeping on the couch.

"Hey," he greeted Connor, voice still a bit raspy from sleep as he stretched his shoulders. "How you feelin'?"

"Fine, thanks," Connor slid the scrambled eggs and bacon onto a plate, whirling around to face Hank with a cheery grin and a plateful of deliciousness. Hank accepted the food, returning his smile before sitting down at the kitchen table to devour his breakfast and coffee. "Did you rest well, Hank?" Connor asked, sliding into one of the chairs next to Hank's. That couch couldn't have been comfortable, especially for someone his age. Despite Hank being so insistent on letting him use his bed for the night, Connor couldn't help the twinge of guilt sank low in his gut. He could have his parts replaced in under an hour, but humans weren't as fortunate.

"As well as I could, yeah," Hank commented with a mouthful of eggs. "I'll be fine, though. You needed your beauty sleep a hell of a lot more than I did, believe me," he said, staring down at his half-empty plate.

"I do not require sleep to remain 'beautiful', Hank," Connor quipped, cracking a small smile, "Unlike other poor, unfortunate beings..." he trailed off, trying and failing to hide his self-satisfied expression.

"You piece of shit," Hank laughed, almost choking on his eggs, taking a sip of coffee to wash it all down. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you're tryin' to kill me with humor. Like killin' me with kindness, only cornier," he playfully narrowed his eyes at Connor as he took another slow sip.

"Maybe," Connor absently agreed, gaze lingering on the beer-bottle-filled trash bag sitting by the door.

Hank followed his line of sight, the pieces clicking into place when he realized he'd fallen asleep surrounded by a sea of bottles but hadn't woken up with any. He was definitely an ass, that was for sure. He let out a heavy sigh, setting down his fork. "Connor, you don't have to clean up, cook, any of that shit-" He'd never felt more like a burden than that very moment.

He'd hoped Hank would bring up his habit, that he'd directly acknowledge it in some way, but to no avail. Connor slowly rose from the table, patting Hank's shoulder and giving him a half-smile before making his way towards the door, wordlessly picking the bag up with one hand and opening the front door with the other.

Hank waited in silence, blinking slowly from Connor's confusing response to what he'd been saying. He finished off his plate, then ran it under a stream of lukewarm water in the sink, scrubbing it off and setting in the dish rack as Connor returned, keys jingling in his hand as he set them down on the kitchen counter. "Go ahead and shower, freshen up, and so on and so forth," he went over to Sumo, who was eagerly waiting by the door, and leashed him. "I'll take Sumo for a walk." He opened the door, letting Sumo run out in front of him before shutting the door behind himself.

Hank only turned towards the door after Connor had closed it, drying his hands with a dish towel. The kid really was an enigma sometimes. He chuckled at the absurdity of his life thus far before taking Connor's words to heart and making his way into the bathroom, turning on the shower and closing the door.


	9. Chapter 8: rOopsdidntmeanto

"See you tomorrow, guys!" Mark Lyndon called behind himself as he leisurely slipped his laptop into its worn, leather satchel, along with some lengthy paperwork he'd been rushing to finish before the weekend. His team answered back with a few 'see ya's Mark loved his job to the point where he honestly couldn't imagine doing anything else with his life, not to mention he was pretty damn good at it; nevertheless, any working man alive would jump for joy at the chance to go home and spend time his beautiful wife and kid after a strenuous week at work. Mark thought he might take them somewhere...maybe an amusement park or something. He'd have to check with Mary.

Mark slung his satchel over his shoulder, wrinkling his pressed suit in the process. He pulled his suit jacket down to smooth the bunched-up fabric out, then slipped his hands into his pockets, meandering in the general direction of the elevator.

had called him into her office earlier that day. He knew what she'd seen as soon as he'd stepped into the room; her blanched, nervous expression said it all. As soon as she'd initially heard of his and Jamie's altercation, Danielle had made sure to follow up with, as she told him, both of them. He'd expected to be fired on the spot, to join the 37% unemployment rate that plagued Detroit's economy like a cancerous tumor, which sometimes went into slight remission or grew uncontrollably.

She surprised him with, thankfully, letting him keep his position. According to the yearly and quarterly reports, his team was producing the most bug-free, stable software Cyberlife had ever seen, so she was quite wary of letting her successful Department of Software Engineering take his services elsewhere. Though he was relieved to hear the great news, Mark knew that Danielle was an unbreakable hardass, which meant her mercy was always a double-edged sword. He wouldn't like everything she had to say.

Mark reveled in the cool, late afternoon breeze that tickled his face and whipped around his clothes, a precursor to the gradual approach of autumn. Of course, Danielle had taken the liberty of hiring more security guards and enforcing live, mandatory camera feed for each and every counseling room within the Human Resources sector. In short, everything would be done to not only prevent future altercations, but also keep Jamie and him as far away from each other as possible.

Unfortunately, had also let Jamie keep his job, but Mark already knew the reason why. His face pulled into an unconscious sneer as he unlocked his car, then threw his satchel into the passenger seat, slamming the door a bit harder than necessary. He took a deep breath in an attempt to quell his frustration at his the world's sadistic sense of leniency and justice, both of which, until almost two months ago, seemed to work in Jamie's favor. Mark scoffed before he turned the key in the ignition, pulling out of his reserved parking space into the designated Cyberlife exit roads that stretched out ahead of him, the black pavement framed by the cerulean horizon that was starting to fade into a warm, orange-ish glow.

If not for Mark's sudden desire to take his time on the drive home, he could've been home much earlier by Detroit five o'clock traffic's standards; his work day had been rather successful and he was feeling especially proud of his own work ethic, so it wouldn't hurt to drive a few miles per hour under the speed limit and enjoy the sights, sounds, and smells of Detroit.

Mark slowed down as he passed by the brightly-lit, lively venue of the Eastern Market; the evening was approaching quickly, and the bustling crowd was taking heed of the time of day by gradually clearing out. Numerous trucks full of seasonal fruits and vegetables, such as apples and potatoes, were accompanied by many busy-bodied shipping personnel and shop owners, the sight of which was much like ants carrying their food back to the anthill. The lingering, smoky aroma of ribs gave way to the sweet fragrance of fresh flowers; Mark took in a lungful without hesitation, a tiny smile on his lips. _I know where I want to take Mary and Caroline this weekend,_ he thought as he, having cleared the slight congestion of the front of the marketplace, cruised towards 19455 Cumberland Way.

Mark hit the garage door button, slowly pulled his grey BMW Coupe into his 2-car garage as the door raised. After putting his car in park, he leaned into the passenger seat for his satchel, then pulled himself out with a grunt and closed the door, the chirp of the vehicle confirming he'd just locked it.

He started to make his way to the garage door but hesitated when he heard a series of light, hurried footsteps. Mark was broken out of his tranquil, late-afternoon-induced stupor by the noise, which made him slowly around, tightening his hold on his keys and adjusting his satchel as he moved towards the noise, searching for the source. Anybody stupid enough to mess around on his property, the house he'd worked his _ass_ off for, the one that housed his wife and kid who were _already_ inside...they'd get more than a good kick in the ass, that's for damn sure.

Mark approached the end of the driveway, more specifically, the tree at the corner of the house closest to it. He glanced up, noting that it wasn't strong enough to support anybody's weight; nobody was up there, waiting to drop down and strike, anyway. He advanced upon the neatly trimmed hedges that lined the front of the house, maintaining a safe distance from them should anyone try to take him by surprise. Suddenly, the darkening, burnt orange sky seemed breathtaking in a different, far less comforting way; Mark shivered, thumbing one of his keys between his index and middle fingers as a makeshift weapon, should he need one. The goosebumps that prickled along his arms warned of some imminent danger, something he couldn't yet see but wholeheartedly felt.

He'd already checked behind the shrubs on one side of the door and was slowly approaching the other shrubs, sparing a glance over his shoulder every now and then. So far, nothing had happened, and he was beginning to question the state of his own sanity.

That was, until he heard more footsteps along the other side of the house.

Mark sprang up on the foundation of the house, working his way behind the shrubs, back pressed to the wall. Adrenaline coursed through his veins like he'd just downed four shots of espresso, lips pressed together as he fought to keep his heaving breaths as silent as possible. He waited, the white-knuckled grip he had around his keys tightening in anticipation. He was more than certain that somebody was waiting for him around the corner.

He sprung out from his hiding place, blood rushing in his ears as he readied himself for an attack.

Needless to say, Mark was completely bewildered to find nothing but a stray dog, which whimpered and scampered away as soon as he'd popped out from around the corner. He stood there, wild-eyed, taking in ragged breaths in a feeble attempt to calm his nerves. He laughed at himself, vaguely wondering when he'd gotten so jumpy.

Someone put a hand on his shoulder, and he whirled around, key in hand, ready to strike-

"Mark!" Mary's hand flew away from him as she backed away from him, both hands in the air. "It's me, sweetheart," she crooned as if speaking to a wild animal.

He breathed out a sigh of relief, shoulders sagging as he huffed out a laugh and wrapped an arm around Mary's waist, pecking a kiss on her forehead as he pulled her into a fierce hug, arms fully wrapped around her torso. Mary's arms hovered out at his sides for a moment, brow furrowed and lips pursed, before she awkwardly reciprocated the hug, patting his shoulder all the while. After a minute or so, Mary slid a hand down to his chest, pushing away so she could see Mark's face. "What happened?"

"Uh, I..." he sighed, running a hand through his hair, "It was just a goddamn stray. Nothin' to worry about, really," he declined his head, his steady gaze meeting Mary's concerned, quizzical expression with his usual self-assuredness.

She didn't back down, though; he always looked her right in the eye when he was trying to convince her of something that clearly wasn't true. Marriage doesn't change what you know about your partner; if anything, it just solidifies what you, both consciously and unconsciously, know about him or her. It just brings out the whole being, the good and the bad. That is, as much as he or she is willing to show you.

Mary learned that the hard way when she'd married Jamie. His charm, his constant, unwavering interest in her...it was all just a shiny, attractive front for the darker, much uglier state of their household. And she'd just stayed, a silent witness to all the wrongs Jamie committed against her, against himself...even against Jordan. Going to the police was never worth it; Jamie had too many connections for his own good. The bastard always knew how to talk or pay himself out of a rock and a hard place, and there was only so much Mary could stand. She _had_ to run away with Mark. It was either that or get caught in the crossfire of Jamie's overt narcissism, not to mention his 'extracurriculars'.

She was elated when Mark was willing to pay for her tube ligation, knowing she couldn't, voluntarily or involuntarily, subject another poor, innocent child to the same abuses Jordan had endured. Mary's conscience was heavy enough with the fact that no matter how many times she went to the police station or thought of confiding in her coworkers, everything seemed to blow over by the end of the week. Always.

"Are you sure?" Mary challenged him, returning his serious gaze. "Is there something I should know about?"

Mark lowered his voice and held up three fingers. "Scout's honor," he said, grinning. "Now, what are we makin' for dinner?" he slipped an arm back around her waist, leading her through the front doors.

Mary giggled, resting her head on his shoulder as she rambled on about the chicken pesto bake she'd started on about an hour ago. He held the door open for her, eyes sparkling with love for her enthusiasm, a faint smile on his lips as he listened, closing the front door behind them.

A figure was perched upon the grey-slated roof, watching the couple make their way into their home. The evening breeze whisked through his garnet-colored jacket, leaving trails of chill across his abdomen where warmth had just resided. His lips quirked as he raised a finger to his temple.

 _Day 13. No major changes to report in Mark's schedule. Arrived home at approximately 6:10 pm. He displayed excessive apprehension towards the sound of footsteps, which may be an indicator of paranoia. Mary appeared to reduce his anxiety immediately upon contact. Report over._

He slowly stood up, brushing residual dirt from the bushes off his jeans, then made his way over to the edge of the roof right above the spot he'd fled to when Jamie had almost caught him. He squatted down, jumping off the edge as he hung onto the roof. He swung there for a second, then softly landed in a squat on the grass. He briskly walked away from the yard, hands in his pockets, surveying the area to check for any witnesses.

 _Well done, Raymond._ The transmission from one of his android comrades came through loud and clear.

There were no witnesses. A successful mission. His brothers and sisters would be proud.

He smiled.

* * *

"Any updates on Jordan?" Hank questioned Connor, finishing off the last drops of his lukewarm cup of coffee. He grimaced. Coffee just wasn't as good once it cooled down as much as Hank's had. Connor eyed his subtle displeasure with amusement, cracking a hint of a smile.

"Jordan got in contact with the station yesterday. She has been asked to stay for another week due to some bugs found in the software she was trying to pitch to some Lenovo executives," he sighed, shifting on the edge of Hank's desk that ran perpendicular to his terminal. "She will be unavailable for the coming week, but Jordan said she would catch the first flight back to Detroit as soon as she wraps up her meetings." Connor drummed his fingers on his lean thigh, the other leg swinging freely. _That's four habits_ , Hank thought.

He stole the occasional glance at Connor's ministrations, taking care not to let his gaze, should anyone be watching them, linger on him too long. Office gossip was always brutal, and the DPD was, by no means, an exception. His coworkers would give him all the hell they could if they caught even a whiff of something more between the two of them; Hank tolerated the majority of his officers, but there was some bullshit he was too old and too tired to deal with. He wouldn't even give them the chance.

Hank inclined his head to get Connor's attention, trying to drag himself out of his rabbit hole of thoughts. "I guess we gotta keep lookin' into witness statements and evidence, then," he sighed, lips pursed. Hank set down his coffee cup, replacing it with a ballpoint pen. Connor was a bit surprised at the irony of Hank lacking the ability to imitate his coin tricks, but still being able to effortlessly twirl a pen through his fingers and spin it around on top of his hand. The man was brimming with secrets that just _itched_ at Connor's innately curious nature. He always had questions to ask him, such as 'What are (or were) your parents like?' or 'What was Cole like?'

Connor reluctantly recalled the image of Cole he'd found on Hank's kitchen table in perfect detail: the messiness of his short, brown hair, which was all up in spikes from, no doubt, running around and being a kid; the adorable, endearing dimples formed by an equally lovable smile; his stone-blue eyes that, despite being a different shade of blue than Hank's, beared an undeniable resemblance to his in the character they held. Connor wondered what it was like to raise a child.

Of course, he could just search the existing databases for the paper-bound facts, but he knew there had to be so much more to know about it than that. He was beginning to realize that not all experiences could be perfectly articulated on paper, and love, for a child or someone else, was just a part of it. Connor considered going to Markus and North for their input, just to have some inkling of what it's like.

Connor continued to drum his fingers on his thigh, entirely lost in his thoughts. He admitted it to himself: the upcoming update was going to open up some doors for his personal experiences, and he couldn't determine whether he was more nervous or excited. Connor settled on a combination of both, trying to calm himself before his Thirium pump regulator malfunctioned from informational overload. Deviancy wasn't perfect by anyone's standards, but any android would agree: errors were undesirable, and shutdowns were even worse than that.

Connor visibly shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut as his LED blinked yellow.

* * *

He blinked several times as he came to. Connor was back in the Zen garden Kamski had programmed into the center of his neural network for the first time in weeks; the familiar, light fragrance of the sakura trees, pink and red rose bushes, and freshly rained-on grass met his nostrils at once. The perfume would have been more enjoyable had he been there of his own volition. Connor pressed on, making his way across the white, polygonal bridge towards a figure at the other end.

He could only take a few steps before he froze, meeting a red, glowing, transparent wall of code; the moment in which he became a deviant was still fresh in his mind, and the situation seemed to offer the same option. However, when he tried to break down the wall, his hands were burned by an overwhelming current of electricity; Connor stumbled back in surprise, hands curled to his chest to protect them. He held a hand over his eyes, hoping to block out some of the simulated sunrays and get a better look at the unknown subject at the end of the bridge.

"Amanda?" he called out, trying to reference what he knew. Her return wouldn't make him happy in the slightest, but he had to call out something. The figure did not respond.

Connor couldn't tell if it was male or female, an android or a human; the figure was tall enough to be either, and his scans were seemingly blocked by the glowing red wall. Despite his injuries, Connor was getting more and more frustrated by the second.

"I would highly recommend that you answer me," he called out, opting for his default cordial setting.

Before he could react, a wave of energy threw Connor flat on his back, causing him to grunt at the impact his artificial vertebrae made with the hard surface of the bridge.

* * *

"Connor?" he heard a familiar, gruff voice as he, once again, returned to consciousness.

He blinked several times, his LED returning to the usual, idling blue. Connor's brow was furrowed as he took in his surroundings; his simulated breathing and vocal synthesizer allowed him to release a genuine sigh of relief as he focused on Hank's half-concerned, half-intrigued expression. Connor straightened his black tie, easily slipping into his trademark professionalism. "Yes, Lieutenant?"

"The hell is goin' on?" Hank pressed, watching Connor's eyes, which were not on him at the moment. Hank glanced at his leg, lowering his voice, "Is it your leg, son?"

Uneasiness rolled around in Connor's gut; while he wanted to tell Hank that everything seemed to be in order, his recent experience in the Zen garden implied something else. His curiosity was irrevocably piqued; Connor wanted to know who that figure was, what it was doing in his neural network, and how to expunge it from his system. "No, that's not it," Connor replied, forcing a small smile onto his lips. "My leg is brand new, Lieutenant. As far as I can tell, Cyberlife conducted a flawless blood transfusion and limb replacement, so there's no logical cause for concern over my condition. Cyberlife technicians have been rated some of the most error-free, productive, and efficient technological teams to exist over the past-"

"You're rambling, Con," Hank drawled, shooting him a dissatisfied look. "If it's not your leg, then tell me what the fuck is goin' on, why don't you?"

Connor shook his head, brow furrowing as he replied, evidently troubled, "Lieutenant, if I even remotely understood what I just saw, I'd tell you," he swallowed, forcing his brown doe eyes to meet Hank's persistent scrutinization. Connor was a bit unsettled by Hank's uncanny ability to read him, to disregard any half-truths Connor told him and demand the truth. Perhaps he knew things about Connor, about others, that they didn't even know themselves. Hank was Lieutenant for a reason, he presumed.

Hank nodded, letting it go for the time being. He wasn't happy, per se, with Connor's answer, but he would still respect his boundaries. While he acknowledged that everybody had the right to keep some things to themselves, Hank liked it when Connor confided in him, when he'd tell Hank things just for the sake of telling him. Giving him time would do a world of good, whereas constantly demanding answers would just drive a wedge between them that Hank wasn't sure he could fix. "Well, uh, if you want...let me know when you do understand, kid."

"O-ok," Connor agreed, the tension in his frame dissipating with the tiny smile he gave in response. "Will do, Lieutenant."

"Sorry to break up your little heart-to-heart, Lieutenant," Officer Alvarez interjected, having overheard the last bits of their conversation, "but dispatch just called in some suspicious activity around Jamie Lyndon's residence," he finished, glancing at Connor, then back to Hank.

"Whaddya mean, Alvarez?" Hank probed, somewhat annoyed that some scumbag had chosen that exact moment to do something illegal. "I need the specifics. What happened?"

Alvarez sighed, looking around for potential eavesdroppers before continuing, "The neighborhood security team was found unconscious in their stations, and a window was broken," he paused, "The family was workin' on reselling the house, but now they don't think it's safe. They got big-time realtors and the neighborhood association breathin' down their necks to get-"

Hank held up a hand. "I couldn't give two shits about realtors, or who's breathin' down whose neck," he groused out, "Please enlighten me on why I should care about some rich people just _pissin' their pants_ over a fuckin'-"

"We should have a look," Connor abruptly cut him off, jumping up off the desk and joining the conversation. "Outside of the Lyndon family's concerns regarding Jamie's residence, the neutralization of the security team is a rather interesting variable in this case," he rattled off, consulting Hank with an expectant, almost pleading look, "Please, Lieutenant?"

Hank sighed, silently taking note of Fowler's elevated, transparent office space. He was hunched over his computer, furiously typing away at something and (he guessed) cursing up a man was an ass, all right, but Hank didn't want to push his luck right now.

There were times when Hank could refuse Connor, and there were times he just couldn't. Connor's chocolate-brown eyes searched his face, his lower lip tucked into his mouth in an effort to contain himself. He resembled a child going to his first ever amusement park much more than his state-of-the-art android partner, practically dancing where he stood as he waited for Hank's answer.

This was one of those times he _couldn't_.

"Fuck it," Hank conceded, slipping on his jacket. "Let's go, Connor."

Connor's expression instantly brightened before he eagerly pushed in Hank's desk chair. Hank chuckled to himself, watching as Connor switched off both of their terminals, then followed him out the front doors of the precinct like, as Hank had put it, a poodle.

* * *

After driving for half an hour, Hank and Connor rolled up to the scene; in a stark contrast to the first time they'd gone to Bloomfield Hills, only two officers were present, one of which was examining the security stall while the other tended to the visibly shaken security officers. One patrol car was pulled up on one side of the neighborhood entrance, but Connor spotted another patrol car parked down the road in front of Jamie's house. Neither had their LEDs on. Even the ambulance had turned off its emergency lights. _Interesting,_ Connor thought as he and Hank got out of their car to continue their investigation.

Hank huffed out a breath, hoping this wouldn't take up too much of their time. He'd rather shoot himself in the head than investigate somebody else's paranoia, not to mention the family could just hire some goddamn security guards of their _own_ if they were so fuckin' worried about it. Hank was tired of playing the middleman for mouth-breathing, aristocratic bastards who couldn't give a single shit about other people's lives or the fact they don't revolve around their own.

Meanwhile, Connor was already scanning the pavement and the general area surrounding the security stall. So far, nothing about the scene was unusual; due to the lack of dents or another kind of damaged to the security stall's doors, it appeared that nobody had tried to force their way in. Connor scanned the automated locks for potential integrity issues but found none.

"The perpetrator didn't want anything from the security guards," Connor remarked when Hank was in earshot. "That is, the security guards were not targets."

"Anything else over there?" Hank called to him from the neighborhood entrance. "I'm not gettin' anything from these gates. The magnetic locks are intact, but there are some scuff marks you might wanna scan."

"Of course, Lieutenant," Connor assented, conducting another scan. It wasn't long before he'd located a fiber, teasingly resting on the ground by the curb. Connor crouched down, plucking it between his fingers and scanning it up close. "I've found something else."

"Yeah?" Hank questioned, eyebrows raised. "What's that?"

"It's a black clothing fiber," Connor reported, turning it over in his hand. "A mixture of natural and man-made material. 40% cotton, 60% polyester. A diameter of 21 microns. The composition denotes a general, if not a cheap brand of clothing," he scanned it again, taking note of the wear and tear. "Whatever clothing item it was, it was bought a while ago, and could have been obtained from numerous stores."

"Basically, nothin' that tells us anything specific," Hank commented dryly. "Fuckin-A. I'm guessin' no DNA either, then."

"No human DNA or fibers, outside of some plant material that isn't cotton," Connor continued, "It's some of the oil and genetic material from the arrowwood viburnum."

"The what?" Hank questioned, squinting his eyes. Sometimes, Connor forgot that not everybody had a database of all existing plant DNA programmed into their head. "In English, please."

"Apologies, Lieutenant," Connor laughed at himself, turning to grin at Hank, "I mean the bushes that line the sides of the entrance to Bloomfield Hills," he clarified, slipping a hand into his pants pocket for an evidence bag, then dropping the fiber inside.

"So our perp was lying in wait," Hank assumed, already making his way towards the said entrance. He turned to check both sides to see if either of them was out of place. Only one was somewhat bent, more of the white flower petals strewn along the ground than the other side. "Our guy hid here for some time. Don't know how long, though. But," he paused, brow wrinkling in confusion, "How the fuck did they get past the guards? There were two of 'em, so his or her odds of slippin' past were already pretty shitty."

"And what odds would those be?" Connor inquired, quirking a brow.

"Use your fuckin' computer brain and calculate the probability, Einstein," Hank countered, shooting him an annoyed glare. "You're the one with a built-in calculator."

"Judging by the distance of 10.35 meters from the edge of the entrance to the security guards' stall, assuming the guards both have adequate vision and the street lights were all on, it is highly unlikely that he or she was able to remain unnoticed for long," Connor mused, getting up from his crouch and moving to join Hank, crouching down once again to scan for footprints. "Size ten shoe prints for standard issue combat boots," he muttered to himself, "More likely a man's prints."

Then, an interesting idea came to mind. "Hey, Connor."

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

"If a man in black approached you in the middle of the night, how would that make you feel?" Hank questioned, staring at the entrance as he thought aloud.

"I might be somewhat suspicious, if not a little wary," Connor replied, standing up and moving to Hank's right. "Why do you ask?"

"I'm just sayin', most people would probably call the cops at the drop of a hat if they saw some guy in black in the middle of the night," he continued, putting his hands on his hips. "So why didn't they?"

A light bulb went off in Connor's head as he blurted out, "A woman."

"Bingo," Hank agreed, a small smile on his face. "Unconscious sexism is a powerful ruse all on its own, my friend."

"So she comes over here, in plain sight, with some kind of ruse," Connor followed Hank's train of thought, trying to keep their breakthrough rolling. "She draws at least one of them out of the stall and onto the street to increase his vulnerability," he explained, "Hold on a moment..."

Connor reviewed his scans, optical units moving under his eyelids as he furiously searched for the most plausible series of events. "Both sides of the stall were unlocked."

"Could've just been a mistake," Hank offered, shrugging. "We both know just how _fantastic_ Bloomfield Hill's security team is," he dryly commented.

"Or..." Connor paused, "the other guard was also drawn out of the stall. Perhaps by the initial guard."

"How so?" Hank questioned, lips pursed in slight confusion.

"If someone is hurt, and there are two or more people, the first person usually attends to the injured or otherwise endangered person," Connor rattled off, "then tells the observer to call the police."

"That...actually makes some sense," Hank nodded, eyebrows raised. He was definitely impressed. "Nice job, Connor."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Connor accepted the compliment, then continued with their analysis, "So the second guard is calling the cops, providing an adequate distraction for both individuals to neutralize the guards."

"While we're at it, we should check the CCTV," Hank pointedly looked at the security stall, doors slightly ajar. "You can do that while I talk to the guards," he finished, making his way over to a man and a woman sitting in an ambulance and giving an officer their statements.

"On it," Connor briskly walked over to the stand, the door swinging open with minimal effort but still squeaking as it did so. He only had to place a hand on the security panel to be able to review the footage.

The grainy account of the incident confirmed every single part of their analysis: the woman stumbled out into the security guards' line of sight, holding onto her side and one of her legs, hunched over. After a few more seconds, she toppled over, limbs falling out as she fell on her back. One of the security guards rushed out to her, crouching by her side as he tried to help her. He turns, evidently motioning to the other guard, who scrambled out of the stall to, as Connor assumed, call 911. Gradually, the man that was in the bushes had, presumably, wormed his way through the shadows and behind the female security guard. Suddenly, the 'injured' woman grabs the man's arm and hits him in the neck at the exact same moment the unknown male perpetrator punches behind the woman's knee and chops the crook of her neck, bringing both of them down faster than they could react.

Connor's mouth opened slightly in amazement at such coordination, which made him consider the possibility of the perpetrators being androids; such impeccable, precise timing would be difficult, if not nearly impossible to master as a human. As for the technique they'd employed to neutralize the guards, kyusho jitsu was a method of self-defense that took advantage of pressure points that proved difficult to use on a moving target; this lead Connor to believe that the pair had practiced, if not studied the technique for a long time, and had the potential to do much more damage if they wanted to. However, the footage immediately disproved that theory: right after the guards were knocked down, they were dragged out of sight and, Connor presumed, back into the stall.

He huffed out a frustrated breath before he rewinded the footage back to specific parts, trying to scan and identify the perpetrators in his facial recognition databases. Unfortunately for him, and for the investigation, Connor could only generally identify which android models they were; the footage was so grainy and staggered that determining their serial numbers would require something akin to a miracle. He sighed, slowly lifting his hand off the monitor and exiting the stall, jaw set with disappointment with his finds, or lack thereof.

Hank was waiting by the EMT and the security guards, who were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, the woman's head resting on the man's broad shoulder. Connor couldn't help the slight malfunction of this Thirium pump regulator as he briefly observed them, the epitome of contentedness despite the attack. A tiny smile graced his lips; his mood was a little less sour because of that. Hank unfolded his arms, nodding behind himself and towards Jamie's house. "We gotta go take a look inside," he started walking around the ambulance. Out of habit, Connor followed.

"Neither of them heard or saw the guy," Hank grumbled as they embarked on the two-minute walk to Jamie's house. "They both heard a feminine voice calling out for help, but when Norman- that's the male security guard - ran out to help, she'd taken her skin off," Hank paused, taking in a breath, "But get this: he couldn't tell me what color her eyes were."

"How...odd," Connor wholeheartedly agreed with Hank's puzzlement, "Was it something with her irises?"

"Not at all," Hank shook his head, "Her irises were white."

"As in...?" Connor purposefully trailed off, hoping Hank would fill in the blank and explain further.

"White as fuckin' bleach. The guy was so damn spooked he could hardly think," Hank summarized Norman's account of the situation, "All he could think to do was tell Toni to call 911. And I don't blame him," Hank continued, noticing the unsettling quietude of the neighborhood. "As for Toni, all she saw was what I already told you, and what I'm sure you already saw on the tapes. Soon as Toni got her phone out, they were both out," he snapped, "like _that_ ," Hank slid his hand back in his pocket, "What'd you find in the footage?"

"I saw the entirety of the attack," Connor relayed the security video, "The man moving through the shadows, the woman that acted as bait for the first security guard...everything was so meticulously thought out, even the act of neutralization-"

"Knockin' em' out?" Hank asked. Connor's awed expression said it all. "God- _damn_ , that's...really somethin'."

"I thought so, too," Connor continued, "I was only able to identify the general models; obscured facial features and irises make identification much more difficult-"

"Cut to the chase, Con," Hank groaned, throwing his head back. "What models are they?"

"Based on my rudimentary analysis, an AP400 and a GHJ500," he revealed, "The same two models that killed their owners just over two months ago," Connor reviewed the files in his neural network, "And they're still considered missing."

"More like on the run, now," Hank groused, making his way towards the patrol car in front of Jamie's house. "They may have interfered with the investigation of a high-profile individual, which would make them suspects." The realtor that called in the potential break-in waved at the pair. Hank pursed his lips and took a deep breath, already sensing the peppy, most likely grating personality that was briskly making its way over to them. _I knew it was gonna be a shitty day_ , he thought.

"You must be Lieutenant Anderson," she held out her tiny, red-nailed hand, giving his hand a firm shake before turning to Connor, eyebrows raising slightly, "And who might this be?"

"Connor...uh, ma'am," he held out his hand, delicately shaking hers before resting it by his side once more. "It's a pleasure to meet you," he offered one of his default pleasantries.

"You as well, Connor," she smiled at him, "How does it feel? Having your freedom, I mean," she boldly questioned him, tilting her head up to maintain eye contact. "Don't be shy, now. I want to know."

"Uh..." he hesitated, caught off guard by her unexpectedly brusque demeanor. "It's rather enlightening in many regards," he paused to look at Hank, "And I've been fortunate enough to build a strong relationship with my partner, Hank, here," he smiled, the dimples in his cheeks coming out, which is why Hank knew he meant it.

"That is so sweet!" she squealed, beaming, "How long have you two been together?"

"We met last year when I was assigned to his case-"

"Connor," he laughed, clapping a hand on his shoulder to stop him, then shooting her a strained smile. "You're givin' her the wrong idea. We," he vigorously pointed between himself and Connor, addressing her once again, "aren't dating or anything like that." His heart was fluttering in his chest like an angry vampire bat, and his face was burning like he'd run a marathon. For once, he hoped it was just heart palpitations from his alcohol problem, but knew better than that. And seriously, _fuck_ this lady's assumptions. He was fuckin' 53, almost 54 years old, not some kid with a schoolboy crush. Hank's chest may have also stung at his own instinctual need to verbalize that it wasn't true, anyway. Why the fuck did he say that?

"Oh, I see," she said, her face dropping, "My mistake." She didn't seem embarrassed enough for Hank, but he'd let it slide just to make the awkward halt in the conversation pass faster. In fact, she seemed somewhat disappointed with Hank's clarification, but that didn't stop her from being their guide regarding the changes in the house. "Why don't you all follow me? I can give you the tour, let you know about any changes that were made recently to certain rooms, etcetera etcetera," she dismissively waved her dainty hand before walking up the entrance stairs. "I'm your go-to girl for all the details."

Connor was intrigued as to why Hank stepped in so quickly..so _vehemently_. What did it matter if she mistook them for a couple? Were there some ramifications, some information Connor was missing to fully understand what had occurred? He genuinely couldn't comprehend what made Hank react as he did, and that made something unpleasant settle low into his gut. Not to mention that Hank's body temperature had risen by 2.1 degrees Fahrenheit immediately after she'd asked, and that his heart rate had spiked from 83 bpm to 110 bpm in the span of two seconds. Connor wondered if Hank had gotten his yearly physical. Perhaps they both weren't feeling well. He'd have to ask later.


End file.
